Eyes, Blood, and Ashes
by Blue-Inked Frost
Summary: Veronica Sawyer can see ghosts but cannot fight them. Jason Dean has hunted the ghosts he cannot see since he was a child. When they meet at Westerburg High and dead bodies start piling up around them, they need to rely on each other's abilities to fight a particularly ambitious and deadly ghost who's out for their blood.
1. Pieces on the Board

_A/N:_ This fic has a similar premise to 'Saving Souls' by Scouts_Mockingbird on Archiveofourown, which is excellent and you should read it. (I started writing not long before coming across it.) I think the origin of the alternative universe worldbuilding I'm using here is a tumblr post by allofthefeelings on 22/10/2015.

—

 _September 21st, 1989_

"Kill the bitch."

The woman shuffled forward, awkwardly balancing on what looked like a sprained ankle. Bloody vomit coated her chin. She was middle-aged, with a slim athletic build. Light brown hair flared around her head, crinkled with dried blood. J.D. knew, without needing to say it, that his father Big Bud Dean liked it when they fit that profile.

 _Kind of looks like Mom. Kind of doesn't make any difference at all._

The woman was possessed by a ghost. You could tell even without a seer's eyes. Normal humans didn't usually take big bloody bites out of the living, unless they were on some serious meth. It didn't matter what the woman was really like, whether she was as fucked-up as anyone else underneath. The ghost looking out of her eyes was what set that ankle down and ignored the pain. Most ghosts forgot how a human body operated, even when they grew strong enough to seize one.

Only a seer and a hunter, trained to work together, could take down a ghost. A seer could see ghosts, talk to them, and do nothing else but squeal and get drained. A hunter couldn't see ghosts, but hunters walked invulnerable in the world. A hunter's touch shrivelled and disappeared a ghost, and there was nothing the ghosts could do to them unless they got corporeal.

Not that this one had ever stood any chance.

J.D.'s axe was as familiar to him as his hands, and served as an extension of his power. The woman reached out a grasping hand in Big Bud Dean's direction, but she wasn't even close. The axe split open her head, before she could try and stop it. You always had to do the one-two technique in possession cases: first get the ghost out of the human, then destroy it before it fled. Mostly, the ghost went upward. J.D. whipped his axe out of the woman's bloody skull and aimed thirty centimetres above her falling head. The axe hit the wall behind her. He thought he felt the faint drag of clammy air that meant he'd hit something, but he couldn't be sure. If he'd missed the ghost, then he'd hear about it from his father. They made a perfect pair, father and son, seer and hunter, working to make the world a safer place in return for large payouts at Big Bud Dean Removalists.

J.D. heard nothing as he stood over the woman's dead body, except the sound of Big Bud Dean's heavy breathing. He felt nothing, looking at the red and white shards of the woman's skull. _One down, more to go._ The streets in this part of the town had been cleared of people. J.D. didn't see anyone else as he walked next to his father, except the body of an old wino lying in a nearby alleyway, already stiff and bloody. One of her victims. Big Bud Dean radioed their cleanup guys for two pickups.

—

Veronica Sawyer saw another shimmer out of the corner of her eye as she walked to school, but she didn't look. She'd carefully taught herself to never look.

Over the radio yesterday, there'd been a closed-off area downtown. The town had hired an external crew of removalist contractors; they'd either deal with it or had already finished. Sherwood, Ohio didn't normally have any ghost problems. It was a small town, with only one seer and hunter pair working at the hospice. The downtown news sounded bad, maybe spirits blown in on the wind from Cincinnati or somewhere.

Nothing to do with her.

Veronica got her books from her locker. Blue folder, English, politics, math. She looked at her face in the mirror she'd fixed on the back of the door. Her makeup was good; she straightened her collar a few millimetres to the left; the thin line of navy blue eyeshadow matched her shirt perfectly.

She was interrupted, blindsided by a flash of red stockings coming from the other side. "You're late, bitch." Heather Chandler slammed Veronica's locker door shut. She looked particularly confident today - red scrunchie in her blonde curls, matching nail polish and skirt. "Be at the cafeteria pronto at lunch for today's push poll topic. Don't forget the Remington party tonight. You can't accessorise for shit, so we'll come to your place and help. Later."

Heather Chandler was either Veronica's best friend or her worst enemy. God, she had no idea which one it was. Veronica flew with the Heathers, the most powerful clique in school. Heather Duke, bitter bulimic bookworm, Heather McNamara, insecure cheerleader failing math, and Heather Chandler, the almighty leader. She knew she didn't particularly like any of her friends. _It's like we're coworkers, and our job is being popular._

It got Veronica away from her strange habit of seeing dead people, the habit she'd never told anyone about. Be popular, be cool, be beautiful. Be a perfectly normal girl, and no one will ever push you down a path you don't want to go.

Veronica spent most of the early years of her life in hospitals and hospices, all sterile white painted walls and the smell of ammonia and urine and sick people. First her mom's parents got ill, then her dad's, and her parents dropped everything to spend time with them and watch them die. At the time, Veronica hadn't wanted to go near the ugly, wrinkled things on the beds, as if they were fairytale monsters. She was afraid then bored, and sat on the floor with her picture books while her parents fussed over her grandparents. She'd started to try and play with the shimmering things she sometimes saw, but thankfully it didn't take her long to put the pieces together in her mind. Normal people didn't see those things, so Veronica Sawyer shouldn't either. And the people who could see ghosts wore black with a glowing silver eye painted on their chests, and that was just about the only thing they were allowed to do in life.

It wasn't quite an 'allowed to' question. Now Veronica was older, she knew that people with seer or hunter abilities weren't forced into the profession, they just ended up on a national public database and could be conscripted if a local situation was bad enough. But everyone would know what you were, and there'd be all sorts of pressure on all sides. Veronica could live without that. She was going to college next year, although she still wasn't exactly sure what she'd study. _Mrs. degree, who knows. I already turn my grand IQ into selecting exactly the right shade of lip gloss_.

Veronica made it into class just as the bell rang, barely on time. One of the nerds held the door open for her. She caught Heather Duke's eye across the room. There was a clandestine note already making its way across to her, a sheet of neatly cut notepaper folded in two, exactly in the middle.

Duke's writing was almost calligraphy, neat and pretty with hearts for the 'i's. _Heard Courtney's mom got bitten by a ghost yesterday._ Veronica hardly knew Country Club Courtney. She scribbled one word, _Sad_ , and passed it back.

"I think Veronica's in a bad mood, Heather," Heather Duke complained. They were clustered in the corner of the cafeteria, talking in low voices.

"Shut up, Heather," Heather Chandler told her. "I need you to write a note, Veronica. Kurt Kelly's handwriting. Sweet, wistful, I've missed you darling, how about we get a slushie - one slushie, two straws. You'll need something to write on. Bend over, Heather."

"It's my new coat," Duke bleated. She let Veronica rest the folder on her back.

"The things I do for friendship," Veronica said. Forging notes was one of her talents: any handwriting, any level of vocab, any time, report cards and even doctor's notes for the right price. Kurt was left handed, with a big childish scrawl. Two misspellings, one grammar error, keep the sentiment _just_ short of upchuck mode.

Heather Chandler didn't compliment Veronica on the work; that was normal. She folded it in half with a brief nod of satisfaction and passed it to Heather McNamara. "Get it on Martha Dumptruck's tray."

"Wait, no." Veronica bit her lip. She and Martha _Dunnstock_ had a history. Former best friends; known each other since pre-kindergarten; now Martha was an obese loner and Veronica ran with new friends. "Martha's okay. She likes Jane Austen," Veronica said, looking at Heather Duke, who had her copy of Moby-Dick under her arm. Duke, Martha, Veronica - in grade school the three of them competed over who could read the most books, argued which of the three musketeers they wanted to be. Did such a thing as a sorority of readers still exist?

"I hate Jane Austen," Duke said. "Like I always say, I'd like to dig her up and beat her over the skull with her own shin-bone."

"You didn't say that, Mark Twain did," Veronica said. "Give me the note, Heather. Don't do this." Martha had a crush on Kurt - or used to - only God knew why. Kurt Kelly was a star football player and a future gas station attendant, with about a teaspoon's worth of gray matter and even less basic decency. But this would hurt Martha.

"Are you fucking arguing with me, bitch?" Chandler said. "I'm doing Dumptruck a favour, giving her shower-nozzle masturbation fantasies that'll last until she dies of diabetes. Heather, take the note."

McNamara scampered off like a yellow bunny on steroids. As Veronica watched her go, she saw a new face in the cafeteria. A boy in a black trenchcoat, with a piercing dark stare. It was strange to see someone different in Sherwood, Ohio. He looked Veronica in the eye with an electric intensity, measuring her, reaching out to her. She looked away first. _Perhaps he's squinting because he's got terrible eyesight and everything is a giant blur to him, or there's a zit on your nose, Veronica,_ she told herself. The cafeteria was serving juicy steak sandwiches today, along with candy bars for extra sugar, the normal fare when there was an alert about ghost activity. Not so good for your hips, but useful if you walked through a chilly breeze that was more than just a breeze. She didn't particularly want to watch McNamara do the note trick to Martha, and there was nothing she could do about it now. The new kid had the vegetarian offering on his tray.

"God, Veronica, zone out much?" Duke said. "Quit sulking already."

"Shut up, Heather," Chandler said.

"His name's Jason Dean. He's in my American History class." Heather McNamara walked back up to them. "Jennifer Forbes says he came in with the removalists. He's totally looking at you, Veronica."

 _Mental note: avoid Jason Dean at all costs_ , Veronica thought _._ The slight flicker of interest she'd felt in the stranger was replaced by six feet of frozen ice. It might not be his fault if his mom or dad was a removalist, but she was one hundred percent not interested. "If you like him so much, you talk to him, Heather," she said.

"But it's my turn to poll the nerd table today, not the rejects," McNamara said.

Veronica forced herself to smile nonchalantly. _We're friends, I'm cool, I'm not going to piss off Heather or Heather or Heather more than I've done already_ , she projected. "Good luck. I'll take the east side."

"Question of the day. Suppose you're dead and become a ghost, your sister inherits five million dollars, then you possess her body. What do you do with her life?"

"Star in girl on girl pornos. Punch it in, bro!" Veronica inwardly rolled her eyes. Kurt Kelly, quarterback, and his best friend Ram Sweeney, linebacker, exchanged fist bumps. How could you possibly have exactly the same neanderthal brain in two different bodies, and they weren't even genetically related to each other? It was times like this you wished you'd picked biology as an elective. Human vivisection would be a great way to find out the answer in this case, not to mention it would be a true public service.

"That's the stupidest question I ever heard," Veronica heard a drawling voice say. Heather Duke was the one polling the new kid. He had a flat, cutting accent that punctured through the background noise of the cafeteria, like a scalpel would shear down to the bone. "No sister for me, but hey, the old man's had the odd fling. Row out to the middle of some lake with a bottle of tequila, drink the tequila, and try to drown peacefully. If you're dead once, make it twice."

"How cute." Duke gave her best insecure giggle and moved on. Veronica took the cue to do the same.

The Heathers did these push polls, and people listened to them, and sometimes Duke wrote down the most interesting or disturbing answers for the yearbook. Maybe it was narcissism, hoping to see themselves or at least the trends they set reflected back at them. Maybe it was a show of power, compelling people to pay attention to them. Or maybe it was a relief from boredom. Veronica got the job done, smiled, and successfully distracted herself from practically everything.

—

Kurt Kelly took the last bite of his steak sandwich. It was a real man's meal. Like he always told his mom, no pussy vegetable shit for him unless it was fried at least three times over. He'd done the important stuff, now it was time to fix a problem with his best friend and linebacker, Ram Sweeney. He pulled Ram into a huddle over the table and jerked his thumb at the new kid.

"Heather number 3 said he was cute," Kurt explained. They couldn't have that. His personal idea of a good time would be being the meat in a Heather Chandler and Veronica Sawyer sandwich, but until that happened you needed to keep your options open. Duke was at least an eight out of ten. Besides, his best friend Ram had dated Duke a couple of times.

"He looked at Veronica Sawyer," Ram agreed.

"Shit, we're seniors, we can't beat him up," Kurt said, thinking carefully about it. He grinned as he worked out a solution. "Let's just give him a good scare."

They marched together, shoulder by shoulder, an impressive sight that made many an opposing team member turn tail and run away squealing like a little piglet.

The new kid wore a black trenchcoat, like some fucking Bo Diddley wannabe, and he was eating lettuce leaves. Kurt slammed a fist down in the middle of his plate, just to grab his attention by the balls.

"Hey, fag, are you gonna eat that?" Kurt said.

"Did you cry when you left your boyfriend and moved to Sherwood, Ohio?" Ram asked. No response yet from the new kid.

"Did you know this cafeteria has a no fags allowed policy?" Kurt said.

Ram cracked his knuckles meaningfully. "Answer him, dickhead."

"Seems to have an open door policy for assholes," Trenchcoat Boy said, levelly, with this annoying little faggy smirk on his face. He was definitely asking for an ass-kicking.

"What did you call us, fag?" Kurt said.

"I'll repeat myself," the new kid said. He stood up behind the table in one smooth movement and pulled something from under the trenchcoat. Something small, black, and shiny.

The new kid had a gun. Oh jesus christ fuck holy shit fuck, the new kid had a gun and he was pointing it at them.

Two bangs, approximately four screams, and then complete silence fell.

—


	2. Playing Wimsey

"He fired a gun in the cafeteria. They should expel his ass," Heather Duke said.

"Fuck that. They should throw his ass in jail. With a three-hundred-pound cellmate who calls him Jessica." Heather Chandler teed up her croquet ball, and took a straight flawless strike. Her red ball hit Heather Duke's green one easily.

 _I thought it was hilarious, actually_ , Veronica didn't say. _He fired blanks at Kurt and Ram - only ruined two pairs of pants. I'm sure they'll figure some way to get the urine stains out._

It was about time someone bullied Kurt and Ram _back_ , Veronica thought. Everyone, teachers and students, knew exactly what they were, but because they were good at moving a ball around a field with a bunch of other sweaty men, everyone gave them a free pass.

At the mercy of Chandler's mallet, Heather Duke's ball flew well out of bounds. "Why?" Duke asked.

"Because I can. Take your shot already, Heather," Chandler said. She smiled as Duke fumbled between the bushes for her ball.

"I heard he's got a permit and everything for that thing. Because of being an apprentice hunter," Heather McNamara said. "I didn't know you could hunt ghosts with guns."

"They don't use scythes any more, Heather," Chandler said. "Did you know his dad's renting from my dad? It's the old place in Marigold Street, near the school. What a dump." Veronica knew that house, had gone to a party there once; you wouldn't exactly call it a slum, but the elm in the front yard was getting out of hand.

Duke's ball was hopelessly out of the game now, behind a fountain statue, a leftover fencepost, and thick shrubbery. She took her stance, raised her mallet, and hit anyway.

The ball ricocheted against the statue, changed angle on the fencepost, flew past the bushes, and rolled back on the lawn just next to the hoop Heather needed. It was an amazing shot. Duke looked as if she didn't believe in her own success at first, then she gave way to a triumphant, cheek-splitting grin. _Great way to annoy Heather there_ , Veronica thought.

Veronica went forward, landing behind Chandler, in front of McNamara.

"Courtney's mom's funeral's going to be on Wednesday. Closed casket," McNamara gossiped. She hit her yellow ball and giggled inanely when it slipped away from her. "I hope the removalists work fast. I wouldn't go near the hospice now if you paid me in light-up Keds."

McNamara had a point for once, Veronica thought. If the removalists finished fast and got out of here, everything would be back to normal. She couldn't make that happen, but there was no reason why it wouldn't.

It was Heather Chandler's turn again. Veronica knew what Heather was going to do before she did it. She turned it into an instant replay, the game being to knock Heather Duke out again. Once more, the green ball disappeared far out of bounds.

Duke's face crumpled. "Why me?"

"Why not?" Chandler said. She turned victoriously to Veronica. "Enough fun and games. Let's get you ready for your first Remington College party. You screw up on this, and it's ice cream sodas with Martha Dumptruck for you until John Wayne Gacy either gets out of jail or goes to hell."

—

"Corn nuts! BQ or else!" Heather Chandler yelled from the car, parked in the disability spot. The bell rang as Veronica pulled open the Snappy Snack Shack's door. She helped herself to a long Cherry-On stick. Then she looked up.

It was Jason Dean, apprentice hunter, shooter of football bullies (with blanks), a formal-looking badge pinned to his black trenchcoat this time, packing pretzels into a plastic bag.

"Greetings and salutations." His green eyes bored into her face. Laying down some sort of a gauntlet, perhaps. "You a Heather?"

"I'm a Veronica," Veronica said.

"Gosh. They let you have your own name and everything," he said.

"Jason Dean. Shouldn't you be on the job scaring spooks or something?" Veronica said. This was playing with fire, touching the edges of a world she was never planning to even visit, but let her live dangerously for once. She wanted to answer this new kid's insouciant challenges with a flash of her own.

"The guys sent me on a snack run. I know my convenience stores," he said. "Seven high schools, seven states, and a Snappy Snack Shack in every one. It's like a little piece of home. Pop a Cheese-o-Rama in the microwave or eat the sugar walnut slice raw. Keeps me sane."

Veronica hooked off the BQ nuts from the pile. "Does your mommy know you eat all that crap?"

"Not any more. Care for a slushie?" He was slightly evasive, as if she'd managed to trip on a razor-wire of forbidden territory with that one-liner. His body language was still turned to her, open.

"Say, how long are you guys staying in Sherwood?" Veronica said.

He shrugged. "Depends on how the wind blows, what pricey jobs are on the market. It's less about following ghosts as following which town's paying the most bounty."

"Really. Not so much a hunter for great justice, then," Veronica said.

"Everyone's life has static. Is your life perfect?"

"I'm going to a college party at Remington. No, it's not perfect. I don't like my friends." It was so easy to tell an outsider, someone who'd be gone from the town in a few weeks maximum. Veronica found herself smiling despite herself. Outsiders understood how fucked up everything was.

"I don't like your friends either," he said.

"Maybe I'm just sick of sticking my finger down Heather Duke's throat to help her puke," Veronica said.

"On that charming note, did you say cherry or coke slushie?"

"I didn't. Cherry."

The bell rang again as they walked out together. Heather Chandler slammed her hand onto the car horn twice in a row. J.D. slung the plastic bag onto the back of a black and silver motorbike - behind what looked like an axe, ominously enough - and Veronica went back to her own ride. The cherry slushie hit her tongue with a numbing wave of cold sugar and ninety-nine shades of artificial flavouring.

—

Too much alcohol, boring conversations, and a college guy with octopus hands who wasn't interested in taking no for an answer. Veronica stormed out of the room and left the inept drunken groping behind her. It was too hot. She tried to clear her brain by an open window. The wind blew fiercely outside. She flicked on her cigarette lighter. Ever since she was a child she'd been fascinated by fire, wild and dancing and never the same from one moment to the next. She brought her left hand close to the flame, then drew back when it started to hurt. _Chicken._ The lighter dropped out of her hand and fell to the bottom of her glass. The alcohol caught aflame quickly. The glass was too hot in her hands, so she threw it out of the window. Get rid of the evidence.

She ought to find Heather and get out of here. _Screw you sideways with a second-hand spanner, Heather._ The music was too loud and each beat felt like it rocked her skull as well as her stomach. Veronica moved on. A couple of other college guys shared a joint in the hallway in a smoke-filled haze. She pushed her way past them, trying to spot Heather's red dress. "I'm looking for my friend, have you seen her?"

There, chatting to her own college guy in the corner. Mighty King David, sophomore at Remington University. Heather looked up and went straight to Veronica, grabbing her arm and hustling her to the other side of the room.

"Can we go, Heather? I don't feel ..." Veronica started.

"Why are you choking on my dick, Veronica?" Heather's hair was tousled, and her eyes were flaming. "Brad said you were the queen of No Funnington."

"I really feel bad. Come on," Veronica said.

"Grow up, Veronica. You were playing Barbies with Martha Dumptruck before I made you. And now you want to bail on a Remington party? I pulled countless strings for you, I made this happen, and this is the thanks I get - "

Veronica's stomach gave way. She fell to her knees. She'd been trying to hold onto herself, it was completely involuntary and deeply embarrassing, but a tiny part of her felt nothing but joy and delight at puking over Heather Chandler's new red Ferragamo heels.

"This is it. I put myself out for you and I get paid in puke." Heather's voice was almost a whisper, all low, concentrated fury directed purely at Veronica.

Veronica's inhibitions were more than broken now. "Lick it up, baby. Lick it up."

The party noises were changing into something different. Veronica looked up and around. Were the lights dimming? The wall looked like it was moving. A couple of people stopped talking and she thought she heard a creak from the house. A girl was complaining loudly about the chilly wind. _No way._ Something shook, rolled, and rattled across the floor.

"I can't wake Rob up," a male voice said. "Is he asleep? He's really cold."

"Is it a ... Or am I just like super paranoid?" a college girl said.

The house gave another shake.

" _Ghost!_ " someone shrieked, and the panic began.

Stuff on the mantelpiece jogged up and down. A china duck flew out and smashed a girl in the face. Blood coated her cheek, and she fell to her knees. Someone grabbed her and started to drag her out.

 _What do they call the ones that move things? Poltergeists?_ Veronica tried to remember the classifications. She couldn't see anything even though she knew she should. _The one time my stupid power would be useful and it's not. I love irony except when it can hurt me._

Veronica got up from the floor, trying not to put her hand in her vomit. Her own movement seemed to unfreeze Heather Chandler, who looked pale and scared for once in her life. They tried to make it to the exit with the others, but the big couch crashed and fell in front of them. Objects whirled in the air in a raging wind, a dust cloud of splinters and broken china fragments. The door flew off its hinges and landed on the other side, cutting them off at an angle. They were trapped. Heather shrieked.

Then the wooden wall behind Heather opened. Veronica finally saw that familiar shimmer for a second, buried somewhere deep in the wall. The panels splintered and opened, like teeth in a gaping maw. The wall grew a mouth of snapping splinters, crunching and spitting and moving in for the kill. Catch Heather in it, and those wooden teeth would rake deep bloody cuts in her skin.

"It's going to _eat me_!" Heather screamed. "Take Veronica instead!" She grabbed Veronica's shoulder. The girls struggled against each other.

Then the hunter walked through, fighting. The currents in the room turned toward the intruder. A heavy TV flew through the air to his head, but he raised an arm to block it. Where he touched it, the poltergeist lost its power and it fell to the ground. His black trench coat whipped around his knees. Where he walked, the room stilled and the rushing winds and dust died down.

 _J.D. on the job, apparently_ , Veronica thought. He was completely quiet and focused, not throwing out any one-liners this time.

He reached her and Heather, pushing aside the door that pinned them in. Heather ran, shoving Veronica back on her way. J.D. pressed his bare hands into the too-sharp hole in the wall. Veronica saw the strange mysterious something respond to him - flicker against his hands, against a thin line of blood on his finger, as if the presence fought against being slowly strangled - and thought too late that she shouldn't be standing and staring. The house felt still again, except for Heather Chandler's running footsteps shaking the ground.

"Thanks ..." she said. J.D. didn't look back at her. She headed for the exits behind Heather.

The Sherwood Ambulance had come around in front of the frat house. Someone handed her a blanket. Veronica felt embarrassed by it and just held it, ignoring the cold on her back. Stuff in the house looked like it was dying down, in the glare of the street lights. She watched the other removalists moving around, talking in low voices through handheld radios. A tall man with a seer's badge looked like he was in charge. She remembered urban legends that seers could easily recognize their own kind in an instant, and fit herself into the rest of the milling crowd.

The seer in charge seemed to give a final signal of sorts over his radio, and the group of removalists came together. _All done, party's over, apparently._ Still backing herself into the crowd, Veronica came upon the last person she wanted to see.

 _I've seen what you really are, Heather, I've seen your rank cowardice and fear and desperate desire to sacrifice my life for yours, and I know you'll never forgive me for it._

"You're dead," Heather said. She'd regained her confidence quite fast, some small analytical part of Veronica thought, even with an emergency blanket bundled around her shoulders like an old-fashioned shawl. "Quit school, move to Seattle. No one's going to play your reindeer games now, not even Martha Dumptruck. You were a Heather, and on Monday you'll be less than nothing. Talking to you will be more radioactive than Nevada. I'll bury you."

 _Oh, I'm sure in the divorce you'll get Heather and Heather, darling_ , Veronica didn't say _._ There'd never be a question which side of the clique the other two would pick. The jocks followed Chandler's lead too. Veronica had definitely seen Chandler's talents for wrecking social lives and reputations. She'd occasionally helped her. Chandler turned on her red puke-coated heels, took hold of her college boyfriend, and drove off in her car. _So much for my ride_.

The group was dissipating. It looked like all the other Remington party-goers had places to go to and ways to get there. It seemed no one was seriously hurt, the worst the girl with the cut face. Veronica stood there, awkwardly shivering. She wasn't going to walk home in high heels. Eventually her parents might connect the dots and drive up, if they were listening to the radio and not Miss Marple re-runs.

"Need a lift?" J.D. walked out of the gaggle of removalists.

"I thought you'd never ask."

The road, a white ribbon in the streetlights, rolled away beneath them in the night. Veronica addressed the back of the black trenchcoat in front of her. "Tell me more about this. What the fuck happened?"

"Poltergeist. We've been chasing it all night," J.D. said. "Drove it out of town, then caught up with it here. They look for spots with people - light, heat, blood. Sorry to break up the frat party."

"Don't be. It was a bust. Date rape central with backstabbing best friends," Veronica said. There were, she thought, things a lot worse than riding on the back of a softly purring motorbike with a guy she found - in a yes-it's-wrong-but-feels-weirdly-right way - fairly attractive.

"Ah thy people, marked cross from the womb and perverse," he said.

Veronica sat up straighter, awake in the night air. "Very interesting; he quotes Swinburne. I always wanted to play Lord Peter Wimsey," she said. The monocled detective was a master of the quote and bon-mot game, fencing against his lover Harriet. "Let's see - Everywhere the human soul stands between a hemisphere of light and another of darkness; on the confines of two everlastingly hostile empires, necessity and free will."

"Carlyle. Desire! I have too dearly bought with price of mangled mind, thy worthless ware."

"Thou blind man's mark. Just go left here. It's the second one." She was almost sorry to find herself so close to home. The lights in her place were on, pointing the way. "Why care by what meanders we are here in the centre of the labyrinth? Men have died trying to find this place, which we have found," she said.

Her mother must've heard the bike, because she rushed outside. "Veronica! Veronica, is that you? I'm sorry - we heard on the radio - we have been so worried about you! Your father wanted to set a curfew, but I thought maybe that wasn't a good idea. You'd better come in and have some pate."

Her parents let her off after one cup of chicken soup and two pieces of pate. Veronica thrust her monocle in her eye, frenetically writing in her diary.

 _I sold my soul for killer shoulderpads, power-play suits, and the crimped-hair Gestapo, and I will be dead for it on Monday. I long for the death of Heather Chandler. Believe me that it is not for selfish reasons, but rather for everybody's sake. A world without Heather is a world where we will all be free._

Veronica forced open a private drawer in her writing desk. She mixed the ingredients for a lime cocktail, took a long drink, and wrote onward.

 _I long for a sea-green incorruptibility, an impossible dream of another way. Here in the hot hard night I am finally myself, and I see the truth of everything Heather is. She will destroy me for my truth and justice. In my last moments on Earth, I accept my destiny as an outcast._

The cocktail gave her liquid courage and the power to smile to herself. She brushed and pinned up her hair, added a blue sweater to her outfit, and put back her diary under lock and key. She fixed the pillows so that to a casual glance it would look like someone lay there, turned off the lights, and left.

—


	3. The Game Begins

Overgrown elm trees in the front yards of neglected rental properties in Marigold Street were harder to climb than you expected, perhaps especially if you'd recently drunk quite a bit of alcohol. Veronica felt her right stocking rip open as she clambered upward.

 _Heather, ironically you're the one to blame for this. You'd better have told me the right house._ Veronica perched on top of the elm branch at the second story window, looked in through the crack in the curtains, and took out some of her hairpins. She liked these nice old-fashioned locks; classic and highly pickable. She pried open the window lock and slid open the glass.

She couldn't see much inside. The window was just wide enough for her head and shoulders. Like a cat, where the head could go the rest could follow. Veronica stumbled on the sill and maneuvered herself onto the floor, thinly cushioned by a threadbare carpet. She'd certainly made a bit of noise. The bedside light came on, after a few seconds of reaching for it.

He'd very obviously been asleep in bed, though he hadn't bothered to take anything but the trenchcoat and his boots off. He was surprised and taken aback for a moment, but got back control quickly.

"Forgery, lockpicking, breaking and entering, Veronica Sawyer?" J.D. quipped. "Do you have any career plans that aren't heading toward five to ten in San Quentin?"

"Funny." Veronica crossed the room to him. "Heather's going to kill me on Monday. There's no escape for me."

"Heather Chandler is one bitch who deserves to die," J.D. said. His face was black in the shadow of the light. "I saw you try to resist her at school. Then she tried to feed you to a ghost because she didn't want to get her hair dirty."

'No, I want to forget about her," Veronica said. "Quote Swinburne to me."

He got the picture. His hand fisted in her hair and he roughly pulled up her head to kiss her. Veronica dug her fingernails into his arms, reciprocating, holding him close. She bit down on his lip.

They fell back onto the bed, which was kind of awkward since it was a small single. J.D. fumbled for the light switch again and left them in a hungry darkness. Veronica felt heat and wetness, wanting and needing something, something uncomplicated and primal and so _very_. This was easy; the games you played when you were upright were the difficult ones. The edge of her heel slammed hard against J.D.'s bare foot.

"Ow!" he complained. Her shoe skittered away, making a tearing sound in the mattress. She should have kicked them off already - a very easy fix. "Sit up. Shirt needs to come off," Veronica said. She slipped out of her stockings.

He had some serious muscle there. She pressed herself against the smooth planes of his chest, her mouth crossing his shoulder. He was trying for her brassiere, not particularly effectively, so she loosened the clasp herself. J.D. kissed her again and worked downwards, his hands around her waist. Veronica put her left hand over his right, guiding him. Her fingers interlaced with his and she felt a bandage on his right hand, a different texture.

"Are you hurt?" she asked.

"It's nothing," J.D. muttered, indistinctly, lost in the hollow of her curves. "A hunter trick. If you're bleeding, it gives your punches that little something extra. Of course, you can't take it too far."

His hands were rough-textured, maybe from older cuts, but there was nothing wrong with the way he could use them. "Good. I don't want you to stop." _Yes. Lower. That's better. Mmm_ -

After that first frenzied heat, they slowed down, their bodies tangled together and moving more softly against each other. He kissed her on the mouth, languorously and carefully, as if he were trying to map out her features and remember them.

"Thank you. That was ... ah, neato," he murmured.

"Hmm, that's not much of a compliment." Veronica settled into the crook of his arm, resting her elbow on his chest. "Do you want a letter grade?"

"Depends on how painful a blow to the ego you had in mind," he said. She bit his shoulder. They laughed, which sent interesting ripples through the way they were joined.

"I don't want to fall asleep," Veronica insisted. "I'm not saying this goes in a hearts and flowers and candy direction. I think you're kind of the same."

"All you know about me is my taste in women and reading matter. Both of which, I admit, are pretty damn good." Veronica could hear the catlike smirk in his voice.

"You're going to leave town with your dad. I'm going to grow up, be an adult, and leave the high school bullshit behind," Veronica said, and kissed him again. "I just wish I could see Heather Chandler puke her guts out once, first."

—

Veronica took her books out of her locker. French, math, European history. Shit, she couldn't find her history book and they had a test today. She couldn't even remember what the test was supposed to be on. Studying beforehand might have been a good idea.

The locker door slammed shut on her hands. For a moment the pain felt good, a rush of blood and stinging that made her feel alive, and then it only hurt. "Bitch," Kurt Kelly cheered. He pushed her face into the locker and bumped fists with Ram.

Veronica crawled on the floor, looking for her notes. There was the book. The cover was scrawled all over in pink lipstick, dirty and disgusting from the floor. She opened a page and found the words were painted all over with the same lipstick as well, destroyed and vandalized. She couldn't read it.

"Loser." Heather McNamara walked by with an open carton of milk on her tray. It bounced off as she went past. It fell on Veronica's head, soaking her. It smelt like it had spoilt years ago. She tried to comb the mess out, but it clung to her hair and shirt, making her clothes translucent.

"Slut," nerdy Dennis Edelmann flung at her. Even he thought she was trash. Veronica picked up her books and walked on. God, let her not give way to waterworks for people so stupid and vapid and ...

"Martha?" she croaked, as her ex-friend walked past her. "We can hang out again, get slushies ..."

"You can't be friends with me when it's convenient for you," Martha told her. "Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me. What does it mean when even Martha _Dumptruck_ is better than you, whore?"

Heather Duke had her nose buried in her copy of Moby-Dick, again, and her green croquet mallet dangled from her right hand. Just as Veronica walked by, she raised it, hitting Veronica's knees and bringing her down again. She didn't say anything, but only walked on, with the same expression as if she'd dumped another barf bag in the toilet.

"Kneeling is a good look for you," Heather Chandler sneered, somewhere far above her. She looked taller than usual, a giantess against the landscape, immaculate and powerful in red shoulderpads. "If you can't fly with the eagles, you crash and burn. And then we take out the trash." Veronica's clothes disappeared. She clung to herself, naked in the middle of the school, with jeers and hatred on every side of her. She had nowhere to go but to disappear in Heather Chandler's endless laughter.

—

It was still early in the morning, with sunlight coming through the open window. The nightmare had felt so real. Fuck, she hadn't wanted to sleep. Veronica was alone now, but the bed was still warm. She listened for noises. Were there two other people in the house at present, or just one? It sounded completely quiet. Her clothes were still scattered where she'd left them. The bedroom was pretty minimalist otherwise. She saw an open suitcase filled with books and clothes, a saxophone case, a movie poster for _The Shining_ on one wall, and a live hamster in a cage nibbling peacefully on some celery. Apparently, the creature wasn't much of a voyeur. _It was nice to get away ... now face the music._ She got dressed again, tried to tidy herself up, and went downstairs. Sneak out the back door or not? There were sounds and smells from what was probably the kitchen. J.D. appeared at the door and called her.

"Conscious? I've always admired the broad, general principle of having mornings, but putting it into practical effect is another question." He looked as tired as she felt, and it seemed she'd given him a purple-black mark that stood out on his neck.

There was a plate in front of him with what looked like scrambled eggs and green tomatoes, and a mug of black coffee. Veronica was at the hangover stage where she knew eating would help, but her stomach wasn't necessarily backing her up on that. The saucepan was still on the stove, sizzling with the rest of the mixture.

"A healthy breakfast gives you three-quarters of your nutritional needs for the day, so they say," J.D. quoted. He gestured to one of the chairs. "Does our guest need the full menu, or is the house special acceptable?"

"Is your dad home?" Veronica asked.

"No. He's out jogging - you're safe until nine-thirty." J.D. gulped down some of the coffee.

"Good. Thanks for the breakfast offer, but I should head."

"Don't want to meet the king of the castle?" He quirked an eyebrow at her; his face was interestingly asymmetrical, one brow higher and more pointed than the other.

 _No way. He's probably that seer I saw last night._ "Not now. Not with bullshit double standards - you know how it is," Veronica said. "People act like the guy wins and the girl loses, but I think it should go either way." She shrugged. "I've got to go over to Chandler's pronto, mix her a hangover cure or something. They say talking things over is always a good idea. Maybe she'll forgive me for the near death experience I saw her have."

"I'll give you a ride. Maybe even some moral support," J.D. said. He laughed, though it wasn't a particularly funny line.

The side door was unlocked; it always was. Heather Chandler ditched the Sunday morning trip to Grandma's even when she _wasn't_ hung over. The kitchen was cheery, expensive, and kitschy, reds and pinks everywhere.

"Milk and orange juice. What's the upchuck factor on that?" Veronica said.

"I've always been a 'no rust buildup' man myself." J.D. held up a bottle of drain cleaner from a cupboard he'd been rooting through. "What say we use this to make her puke red, white, and blue?"

"Don't be a dick. That stuff'll kill her." Veronica turned back to her own cupboard. "Beef stew on the stove, add milk and orange juice. Even grosser. Then some toothpaste."

"We could make it a cocktail. Two shots of drain cleaner, spritz of detergent, dotted with extra bleach ..."

"You're not funny." Veronica poured the orange juice. "It's blue, she'd never drink that."

"Cup with a lid solves that." J.D. rummaged in the cupboard. "Put it in here, she'll never know."

"What about a phlegm goober?" Veronica said. They both started coughing at the same time, competing to see who could make the most disgusting noise. It wasn't successful; you had to laugh. "Never mind. Milk and orange juice it is."

"Good luck." J.D. touched her cheek gently, leaned in, and kissed her. It was very distracting. She could have just stayed like that for hours, forgetting all about Heather. _Wouldn't that be nice._ Blindly, her hand felt down to grab the cup. She broke the kiss and headed upstairs.

"Veronica, wait ..." she heard, and looked back at him. J.D. shook his head. "Never mind. I'll carry the cup."

Heather looked like a Botticelli angel in bed; and, probably, she knew it. She woke up gracefully, and her _plus_ was missing no _non_ whatsoever as she took in the two guests in her bedroom. "Veronica. And the Lone Ranger. _Quelle surprise._ Have you heard of Veronica's affection for regurgitation?"

"Last night, I think we both said - and did - a lot of things that we regret," Veronica said. "Shit happened, it was all pretty scary, and then ..."

"You planted hickeys all over the noble rescuer," Heather interrupted. "I thought high school boys were too immature for you. I don't know how you got the idea that a spook chaser in a moldy trenchcoat is a knight in shining armor."

"I basically came to apologize," Veronica said. "We can go to school, pick things up, make it like it never happened."

"If you want to say sorry, I hope you brought kneepads." Heather got out of bed, untwisting her blonde curls from her red scrunchie. "You heard me. Let's see some kneeling, bitch."

"Mixed you a hangover cure," J.D. broke in. He held out the cup. "Old family recipe, out of the goodness of our hearts."

"Oh, please, what'd you put in it, a phlegm goober? Toothpaste?" Heather paced around his back. "Like I'd ever drink that piss."

"Told you it'd be too intense for her," J.D. said to Veronica.

"Park, park," Veronica clucked. "Chicken." She'd probably never be forgiven for this extra offence against Heather's dignity, but this would make them even on the regurgitation front. _You refused a reasonable offer, you tried to feed me to a ghost, and it's time to balance the scoreboard with a puke-tastic hangover cure._ She tried to keep herself from smiling.

"And you think a little reverse psychology will make me drink it? Lameasses. Just give me the cup, jerk." Heather snatched it from J.D.'s hands.

 _Wait - it's the cup with the lid. Wrong one._ Veronica noticed only the moment before Heather gulped it down. It was too late for her to call anything out. Heather must've tried to drain the whole lot of drain cleaner in one go. She choked, dropped the cup, and grabbed her throat. Her tongue stuck out from her face, bright blue. Her eyes popped out as she tried desperately to breathe.

" _Corn nuts!_ " Heather cried, and crashed into her glass table. The shards went everywhere. She didn't move or get up.

"Is she ... Can we call nine-one-one?" Veronica didn't want to look at Heather Chandler, didn't want to touch the ... body ... in the center of the broken floor. It was J.D. who reached down. His hand shook as he did it.

"No. She's dead. This is kind of freaking me out." He leaned on Heather's dressing table, as if he couldn't quite stand on his own. Veronica collapsed on Heather's dressing stool.

"Oh god. They'll have to send my S.A.T. scores to the penitentiary," she said. "I just killed my best friend."

"And your worst enemy." J.D. shook his head. "Was she possessed by a wraith? No, there's not enough evidence." He looked around the room. "Evidence. We did a murder, that's a crime, can't tell the cops that she just couldn't take a joke." He bent down to the floor and scooped up something yellow and black. A cheat guide book. "The Bell Jar. What if it wasn't a crime? What if it was like a suicide thing? You can do her writing, can't you?"

Veronica tried to keep her stomach from roiling as she took up a pen from Heather's table. There was an unused writing pad, decorated with blood red-colored strawberries. Heather's style was right handed, spiky and sprawling, almost perfect grammar. "Dear world, I know you will be sad and shocked at the step I have taken. But believe me it was the only way to be free." She took some deep breaths, pausing.

"Little did you know, my problems were myriad," J.D. said.

"I was on my period." Veronica collapsed into horrible, inappropriate giggles that turned into weak gasping. "She'd never use myriad. She missed it on the vocab test last week."

"So it's a badge for her failures at school. It's the last thing she'll ever write, she wants to make it good," J.D. said.

"Okay. My problems were myriad. People think that just because you're pretty and popular and have killer clothes, you have no problems. Instead, I too knew the pain of loneliness, nihilistic anguish, and bullying. In death, I will find the only possible freedom in a brutal world where those with power crush those without."

"I die knowing that no one ever knew the real me," J.D. suggested.

"Good closer." Veronica finished. "Have you done this before?"

"Not with drain cleaner," he said.

"Right, the ghost thing," Veronica said. "You kill things on a regular basis. Forgot. No wonder you're so sane and well balanced. Is it different? Is it like a person?"

"I don't even see what I do. Ghosts aren't people, they're like tigers who need something to eat. They don't torture their own kind like a human can. I've killed people they were using as meat cases, but they were dead anyway." J.D. had started to get back some composure. "We need to get out of here."

"What if she ... comes back? As a ghost?" Veronica stared at Heather's body. Would she be able to see the familiar shimmer take shape and form around her, as Heather Chandler stepped out again to prey on people in a whole new way?

"Ghosts can't testify in court. Not coherent, don't know who killed them or lie about it, and it's always second hand anyway," J.D. said. How he knew to reel that off so slickly just raised more questions that Veronica wasn't sure she wanted an answer to. "If we get any removalist calls in this area, we'll take care of it. She was mad we saw her at the frat house, that's why her ghost made wild accusations. Time to motor."

—

Note: "I've always admired the broad, general principle of having mornings, but putting it into practical effect is another question." - similar to P.G. Wodehouse.


	4. Strip Croquet

The hardest part of it was walking into school on Monday as if nothing had happened. Veronica had spent most of Sunday locked in her bedroom, writing in her diary and trying to sleep. _Dear Diary, my teen angst bullshit has a body count._ Heather McNamara went straight over to her and hugged her, while Heather Duke decided to be first with the gossip.

"Heather's _dead_ ," Duke said, and while she kept her face sad there was a barely suppressed _glee_ in her voice that was sickening to hear. _Come on, Veronica, you felt the same thing yourself._ "She took some drain cleaner and crashed through her glass coffee table. Her parents found her when they came back from her grandma's."

"That's terrible." Veronica spoke into McNamara's shoulder. No one could see her expression, somewhere between hysterical laughter and desperate sobs. "How ugly. How cruel."

"Special school assembly in ten," Duke said. "Ms. Phlegm is leading the charge. I think she needs us to have a hippie love-in with incense and flowers and shit. And they invited a news station. I'm not missing that."

It was awful. Ms. Fleming had hung up bright colours everywhere, like puke made out of all the rainbow-striped colours of Halloween candy. Kids like Country Club Courtney talked about how they missed Heather Chandler and wasn't she such a sweet saint in life, always lending out her pretty clothes and contributing to charity, there for Courtney in sad times and happy. In reality, Courtney hated Heather Chandler. Heather Duke was in the thick of it too, thrusting herself in front of every last camera she could see. Heather was her very best friend. They wore each other's clothes all the time. Heather had certainly never bullied anyone or said a mean word in all her life. Heather would have wanted them all to come together and celebrate her life. It was the most beautiful suicide note anyone had ever written.

Then Veronica saw it. A red shimmer in the air, creeping up from under the floor, somewhere in the liminal space between Heather Duke and Ms. Fleming. She saw Dennis Edelmann walk right through it without noticing a thing. She blinked, but it was still there. Rounded shapes all in vivid red and bright incandescent gold, glowing, growing stronger. It was formless in the air, but the swirling patterns looked like they were all orientated one way - toward _her_. Oh, god.

"Is it good for you too, darling?" J.D. wrapped his arms around her from behind, whispering in her ear. He moved too damn quietly.

"Of course not. I was just leaving." Veronica shook him off. He followed her to the door and down the corridor.

"Don't pretend you didn't want it," he said. He'd come around to a sort of _we-did-something-big-and-actually-got-away-with-it_ smirk.

"Wanting someone dead and serving them a wake-up cup of drain cleaner are not the same thing." _Technically, I did not kill Heather Chandler_ , Veronica reminded herself. _Even if she ... is ... she probably wouldn't even remember it._

"She's become more popular than ever. Heather would be so happy with you," J.D. said.

"Talk about your gruesome horror stories."

Ghosts moved at about the same speed as humans, give or take, Veronica thought she'd read somewhere. They blew in and out on the wind. You could outpace them if you knew where they were. And, if you were a hunter - or if you were _with_ a hunter - they couldn't even harm you. A hunter's touch destroyed them. She put an arm on J.D.'s shoulder.

"You want to see a movie?" she asked. "I'll drive if you buy the popcorn."

—

He was down to his last item of clothing, and she was leading by three hoops.

"It's my first game of strip croquet. First game of croquet in general." J.D. hunched over the mallet, as if it hid anything.

"You've done pretty well. But prepare to be destroyed." Veronica was down to brassiere, skirt, and underwear, her bare feet wet on the grass. She stood up straight, posing, capturing his gaze and pleased about that.

 _Heather's funeral tomorrow. Let's do normal couple things, stay up_ very _late, and be too exhausted to feel anything the next day_ , Veronica thought. She had such brilliant plans. Skip school with the new boyfriend, crack jokes about bad movies, hit some slushies at the Snappy Snack Shack, and get home and hide inside her bedroom whenever he had to work.

They were good together. It felt good; they fitted together. She liked the way he looked and the way he touched her, tasted her. He was cynical, smart, and knew when people were feeding them a line of bullshit.

She made her shot and sent the ball through the hoop. Victory was hers. "You know the rules. Strip 'em."

He took off the underpants. "It's a cold night, you know." He gestured to his groin. Veronica looked him up and down gleefully.

"Don't be embarrassed." She slipped off the last of her own clothes, ready to abandon the first of their games. "To the victor go the spoils of battle."

The sky was dark and clear and star-filled, over the neighbour's swingset. Veronica pulled up J.D.'s trenchcoat to cover them both. It was nice and comfortable, a sort of post-coital glow, looking up into the darkness and into pale glittering suns from light years away. "It's more interesting doing it this way than just boning away. Don't you think?"

"I don't know. There's a lot to be said for - ow! - I mean, there's a lot to be said for a good croquet game too." J.D. yawned. He'd been working this afternoon; there was a new bandage on his hand. If it was anything she should have known about, she was pretty sure he would've told her. He smelt of sweat and smoke, and men's cologne; he'd made an effort and she liked the results. She leaned in and nuzzled his chin.

"You think we could play another round?" she asked, and moved her hips so as to leave absolutely no doubt of what she meant.

J.D. sighed in mock exhaustion. "The passion that slays and recovers, Dolores," he riffed. "I'll see what I can do."

When he finally caved in and slept, she was still awake and looking up at the stars. Sleep for her would be okay, but not really necessary. J.D. breathed evenly, looking slightly stupid with his mouth half open. She'd be nice and let him rest, his body wrapped protectively around her.

" _Hello, Veronica._ " The voice hissed and echoed around the neighbors' garden. It wasn't her mom or dad. Probably not the neighbors either, who'd be more likely to scream something completely incoherent. Veronica stayed still and slowed her own breathing. _Imagining things._

" _Having fun, best friend?_ " No, she wasn't imagining it. J.D. slept on, his body warm around her. Was she lost in a dream too? " _Since you_ killed me _and all._ "

The ghost of Heather Chandler floated into view. Gold, red, and human-shaped, she was translucent and glowing in the darkness. She wore the bright silken dressing gown she'd had on when Veronica was accidentally an accomplice to murder, her face glowing with seeming health and beauty. When she opened her mouth to speak, it was all blue and dripping with the drain cleaner that killed her.

"What do you want?" Veronica whispered. Ghosts weren't supposed to have coherent conversations, dammit. Ghosts weren't supposed to remember.

" _I want to see you burn in hell with me, and your little Jesse James there too_ ," Heather said. Her voice echoed so loudly around the area, and yet J.D. and everyone else slept on. " _I get that you're avoiding me, darling. Trying to use him as your personal human shield. But we ghosts have our little ways of breaking shields._ "

"I ... didn't mean to do it. You have to believe me." Pleading for mercy might be the only answer here.

Heather made the same dismissive gesture she'd used ten thousand times when alive, right arm casually sweeping away last year's shoe style or Country Club Courtney's pathetic striped skirt. " _You already tried begging me, and we know what happened then. Midnight's coming for you, best friend. Welcome to your own personal circle of hell._ "

The ghost laughed, and her form rippled. She trailed away lazily into the sky like dying wisps of red and golden smoke, flying away to who knew where. The laughter reverberated for a long time after her, coherent and deliberate and frightening. Veronica knew with a cold certainty she would be back for her.

Of course it was fitting, she thought, that Heather Chandler would turn out to be the demon queen of ghosts.

—

The church was packed to the gills. Of course it was; a popular teenager was dead. The priest, paunchy and red-faced like an overstuffed lobster, leaned over the altar. "Let us pray that the other teenagers in Sherwood, Ohio know the name of the righteous dude that can solve their problems. We won't find him on any of our modern MTV video games. His name is Jesus Christ. We need to read the book. He's jazzy, he's hip, and he's for all eras and all da hoods."

"Wow, it's a great turnout," Heather Chandler said. She floated up to the front of the church, moving and swaying her hips. "It feels like I'm major news. Super famous and very hot right now." Veronica was the only person who could see her. She felt J.D. turn his head when she gasped. "I approve of the floral arrangements. Terrifically _very_. And I look damn good in a coffin. Like fucking Snow White, but if any necrophile gets any fucked-up ideas, I'll kill him."

The ghost slipped past Heather Duke. She reached out an intangible hand, touching through Heather's heart. Duke only shivered as if a wind was at her back. "Delicious," Heather Chandler announced, even while the priest droned on in the background. "Fresh blood, smoky, hint of lemon bitterness combined with sad-sack tapioca. Just kidding, one person tastes exactly the same as the next one. I guess a sense of taste was one of the things you stole when you murdered me. Don't forget, Veronica. Everyone I feed on helps me get stronger." She smiled, with her horrible blue lips, and kissed Heather McNamara on the cheek. It was McNamara's turn to shiver slightly and press her face with her handkerchief. Heather Chandler dipped and spun past Martha Dunnstock. "What a loser she is. Even I wouldn't drain her. We ghosts still have some standards." She hung in the air with one hand on Kurt's head and the other on Ram's. Her shape rippled in and out like she was breathing, draining away their life's energy.

Heather tossed back her head as if she'd found herself in some ecstasy of feeding. Her colours were brighter and her mouth glistened a still more livid, scintillating blue. "Does it bother you, Veronica? I mean, if you'd made your little confession to your psycho boyfriend about being a seer last night, he could have hunted me down then and there. With a croquet mallet." Heather's airy laughter filled the church. She drowned out all other sounds in Veronica's ears. "Now I'm stronger, dear. Don't have naughty thoughts - there are no second chances in this game." She waved a finger at Veronica. "I guess you feel all sad about the murder. You're waiting for your guilt to kill you. Keep waiting for the blow to fall. It'll go down with a real bang."

Heather disappeared through the church door, suddenly moving at superhuman speed. The priest had finished his speech about five seconds ago. That bitch had planned her timing to the exact moment for Veronica's slowness to look weird to everyone around her. "I'm coming," she promised J.D. "This is obviously a difficult time ..."

—

Martha Dunnstock left the church. Going to the funeral of someone who bullied you was the right thing to do, wasn't it? Fanny Price in Jane Austen's Mansfield Park would have done it, gone to Mrs. Norris' funeral and tried to be kind to the people who were actually sorry the person was dead. Veronica Sawyer looked terrible in the church, so pale and distraught. She'd left Martha some years ago and gone on to the Heathers, and Martha tried so hard to understand and move on herself. Heather Duke must be having a tough time too. The old days were so simple and uncomplicated, when it was all about liking books and eating paste and swapping Valentines out of red butcher's paper. Martha and Veronica and Heather dressed up as Athos and Aramis and Milady out of the Three Musketeers and played swordfights in the treehouse. Kurt Kelly kissed Martha behind the first grade classroom.

The sun shone white-gold over the fountain outside in the church garden. It was a strangely bright day to think of death. Heather Chandler was pure evil - no, she had troubles of her own; she died because of them; she was sixteen years old and had parents and grandparents. Those were the nicest thoughts Martha could manage about her. Martha followed the path, trying to stay with the crowd and not be noticed. But when you were built like a beluga whale, staying invisible was hard to do.

"Martha Dumptruck! Get out of the way, wide load, wide load!" Ram Sweeney shouted. He shouldered past her, Kurt Kelly in his wake. They moved in a weird, clumsy way, as if they'd broken out a kegger before going to the funeral. _Kurt used to date Heather, didn't he?_ Martha reminded herself. _The most popular girl and the two most popular boys. Obviously they were friends._ Maybe Kurt and Ram had just tried to drown their sorrows in the only way they knew.

She still had that sweet note Kurt sent her rustling in the back of her jeans pocket. He'd be embarrassed and ashamed to ever be seen with her in front of other people. But part of Kurt still remembered that time in the old days, when he and Martha always held hands in games and gave each other the very best out of all their Valentine's cards. Martha had her dreams that someday she'd be thin and pretty, or Kurt would grow up and be less ashamed of her, and then they could be together forever.

In spite of everything, she was a romantic.

"Hey, Martha, wear a yellow raincoat, people will think you're a taxi cab!" Kurt yelled.

"When you step on a scale, does it say, 'To be continued'?" Ram asked her.

"Martha's funny - when she falls down, the sidewalk cracks up!" Kurt added.

"Martha _Dyke_ truck," Ram called, "a big fat dyke!"

"Martha munches carpet like it's the mayonnaise special at the Snappy Snack Shack!" Kurt said. "Hey ... Veronica!"

Kurt got distracted, stumbling over himself to talk to Martha's old friend. Heather McNamara was holding Veronica's arm. Ram pitched himself over to the cheerleader, choosing her to hit on.

Martha had escaped. On the other side of the garden, she saw that new kid watching her, with a fixed, level stare. _Yes, everyone look at the fat pig and how everyone treats her like a joke._ His name was Jason something - the one who shot blanks at Kurt and Ram in the cafeteria. A scary thing to do. He sat astride his motorbike, revved it up, and disappeared.


	5. The Seer's Rescue

It was sad; it had to be done. Veronica inserted the thin sheet of plastic behind the 'Keep Out' sticker, peeled it off, and opened Heather Chandler's locker.

"Murder and theft, Veronica?" Heather Chandler played peek-a-boo behind Heather McNamara's head. "You killed me, please don't steal my precious plaid tartan earrings as well!" She burst into laughter.

"Shut up, Heather."

"Veronica, I didn't say anything," McNamara said.

The first thing Veronica saw in there was a photo roll. She and Heather, one photo booth, three poses. She remembered the day they'd taken it. First serious, then smiling, then trying for movie-star glamour. Veronica had long lost her own copy of the prints. _I didn't think you liked me that much, Chandler._ An ancient issue of Cosmo, with a feature story on the Guyana Massacre. An _I shop therefore I am_ poster. With Heather Chandler, it was hard to tell if that were ironic or serious.

Heather McNamara took out a blue and red Swatch. "She'd want you to have this, Veronica. She always said you couldn't accessorise for shit."

"I want the earrings." Heather Duke helped herself to the jewellery hung in the locker door. "Now _I'm_ red." She sat cross-legged on the floor and took another bite out of her lunchtime chicken leg.

"Careful, Heather. You might actually digest something," Veronica said.

"I remember when Heather and me met," McNamara said. "She said, you think you can fly because you're a cheerleader on top of the pyramid. I'll teach you how to really fly. You can soar with the eagles or crash like the fat dodos and die. I'm still not exactly sure what she meant, but it sounded so beautiful." She sniffled.

Duke flipped the bare chicken leg into the bin behind her. "We're going out tonight, losers," she said. She got up. "Kurt and Ram are bringing the keggers. Eight o'clock, the woods behind the school."

"I have this thing going on with J.D., Heather," Veronica said. "Kurt asked me at the funeral, but I'm so not interested."

"It's not a _date_ , it's a _kegger_ ," Duke said. "Don't be a pillowcase, Veronica. I'll whisper sweet nothings into Kurt's shell-like ear, Heather can have Ram like she wants, and you can be the fifth wheel. But we Heathers need to ride together. Are you in or out?"

"She's right, Veronica. You're too much of a pussy," Heather Chandler said. "Isn't it so funny that doe-eyed flat-chested Mary-Jane over there wants to be me? She's like a little puppy, trying so hard not to widdle on the carpet." She reached a translucent hand toward Veronica's face. The touch of that hand could certainly hurt her; Veronica froze and stared, but Heather didn't attack. "It should have been you. You could've been a strong enough bitch to lead the Heathers, after me of course."

"Veronica, mothership calling Veronica!" Heather Duke yelled. She patted Veronica's cheek. "See you at eight."

—

Heather Duke was driving recklessly, taking the corners way too fast, jolting Veronica in the back seat of her car. Sharing the back seat with Kurt Kelly next to her and Ram one seat further on made it even less pleasant.

"Are you sure about going to the cemetery, Heather?" she asked. _Don't be an idiot_ , she told herself. _The_ least _likely place to find a ghost is at a cemetery, since people don't actually die there, unless they get buried alive or something._ "There's nothing wrong with the woods!"

"There is if you want to empty a commemorative vodka over Heather's grave," McNamara said. "It's what she would have wanted."

 _Is it all right if it passes through my digestive system first?_ Veronica thought. _Never mind, that's gross._

"Dear Heather, we hope you went to heaven and stuff and we miss you. I'll always have and hold and cherish my three yellow friendship bangles and my silver slide in your memory. Look, I'm wearing them now. Amen." Heather McNamara broke open the bottle over the expensive gravestone. A cherub in a frilly dress smiled inanely above the large marble memorial dedicated to a beloved, beautiful daughter.

Veronica took a long drag of her cigarette, leaning on a nearby upright grave. She could get through this, minimal talking necessary. Ram had brought along a red Chinese lantern that lit the area with a flickering flame. Duke was smiling like a cat who'd figured out how to open a cream bottle, twirling her hair and casually touching Kurt on the shoulder or thigh every so often, like she'd promised. She wore a red Japanese shirt tonight, pretty and expensive and a bit too good for sitting on a stone slab. Ram tossed Heather McNamara a beer. "Drink up! Party's on!"

Veronica finished her shot of whiskey. It kept you warm. She was still pretty coherent, which was a good idea. Kurt and Ram, on the other hand, were long past their limits. It made her feel superior to them, and to the other Heathers. Ram had reached the stage where he was trying to pull McNamara onto his lap and grind with her. Kurt was attempting to make out with Duke, slopping his tongue all over her ear and in her hair.

"Okay - that's enough, Kurt." Heather Duke withdrew, standing and dusting off her skirt. "It's been so very, but I have an English paper due tomorrow."

"Don't go, honey! Stay with me, I need you!" Kurt flung his arms around her legs. He weighed a lot more than she did, and brought her down.

"Ow! Get off me!" Duke tried to break free.

 _Well, what did you expect, sweetheart_ , a cold part of Veronica thought, _you've been flirting with him all night and you_ know _what he's like. Serves you right for making me come and fill up your empty ego trip._

On the other hand, she knew what she should be doing. "What she says, Kurt. Get off her," Veronica said.

"Veronica! Oh, man, hot Veronica! Get over here and give me some sexual healing, Veronica!" Kurt called out to her. In the process, he let Duke go long enough for her to wriggle free. Duke stood red-faced, looking like a little girl caught out at a grown-ups' party, not sure whether to be jealous of or grateful to Veronica.

"I'm leaving too, Ram. Good night." McNamara stood up, wobbly in high heels and mostly drunk.

"You can't leave me like this! You're pinching my blue balls like crazy!" Ram said. He and Kurt both started laughing inanely. "Punch it in!"

Duke took off in the direction of her car, first walking, then running. _Good plan_. Veronica and McNamara followed her straight away.

"Come back ..." Kurt called. Veronica looked behind. The boys were gaining on them. Football players versus high heels. It wasn't fair. Duke ran faster.

"Do you remember how we always went with Heather to these things?" McNamara called to Veronica. "She could actually _stop_ them!" This was true. Kurt and Ram listened to Heather Chandler's no when they didn't even listen to their coach.

"Get in the damn car," Veronica said. Her purse fell down from her shoulder - lighter, license, everything. She stooped to pick it up. Duke had already slipped into the driver's seat and started up. Heather McNamara opened a side door and thrust herself in. Veronica raced for the other side. Her fingernails skittered against the door as Duke set the car in motion.

"Heather, let me in!" She punched the window.

"Sorry!" Heather McNamara called back at her. "I'm really sorry!"

"Fuck you, Heather!" Veronica screamed at them. Then the green car disappeared around the bend.

"No," Kurt said, and giggled like a loon again. "I think it's, fuck you, Veronica."

"Veronica's gonna fuck both of us." Ram hung himself over a tombstone. "Come down, Veronica baby!"

"Go down!"

"Punch it in!"

"We can come and pick you up!" Kurt lurched over to Veronica. It would be nice to get him with a spray of mace, or a knife. Or a gun loaded with blanks, J.D. style. Too bad she didn't have any of those things. The jocks were bigger and stronger than her, they could outrun her, and nothing she had gave her the power to physically fight them.

Veronica dodged Kurt's milling arms by doing the opposite of what he expected. She walked back to Heather's grave, where Ram waited for her. She forced herself to smile at them. It felt like the grin of a corpse. "Easy, boys. There's a special ritual to this stuff. I'll do anything you want." She shaped her voice into a sex-kitten purr. "But first, you have to do something for me. Something you'll like, I promise."

"Sure ..." Ram grinned.

"We finish all the drinks first," Veronica said. "Bottoms up, boys."

Veronica dashed the contents of her glass behind her back. They were too drunk to notice. Pity that they had the alcohol tolerance levels of baby elephants. They were still on their feet, more or less, with only one drink each to go. _Oh, come on, Duke, don't be a bitch. Call my parents or something, come back and pick me up_ , Veronica mentally begged. _Or J.D., come on. Now would be a great time to come riding down to the cemetery with a gun. I'm even OK if it's not loaded with blanks this time._

"Almost there ..." Kurt and Ram clinked their glasses together. "On the count of three!"

"We're coming for you, Veronica!"

She slipped off her high heels. Three, two, one. The glasses went up and they closed their eyes as they skulled. She started to run through the woods behind the cemetery. Head start of about three seconds.

"Ronnie, baby, where are you going?" Kurt and Ram crashed through the woods like baby elephants who'd drunk a lot of alcohol. They didn't need to be subtle, and weren't.

"We're going on a nice romantic walk," Veronica teased. "Can you follow me?" She dashed to a different place under the shadows. She'd lead them with her voice without letting them catch her. It was a good plan, if it worked for long enough. "Over here, boys!"

She could orient herself by the distant street lights on the horizon. Veronica kept looking up and tried to keep to the darkest shadows. Kurt and Ram stumbled over trees and bushes, blundering and forcing their way through. They were always some distance behind, always confident that they'd catch up to her eventually. What girl could outrun or outlast the quarterback and the linebacker?

Veronica took a moment to catch her breath and check her direction. Not too far astray. The snap of a tree branch burst against her cheek, and she knew that Kurt and Ram were too close again. She ducked underneath the brush, light as a deer, and ran on. The ground was pebbled now, painful against her socks. It only meant she was coming closer to her goal.

Left, but not too far left, turn, weave, duck. Look out, Sawyer. You're nearly there. Sometimes things work out for you after all. The gleaming lights were much closer now, and she was almost out of the woods. That wouldn't be good, if she was away from cover and they could see her. Veronica looked around for what she needed. _Please, let me find it. Please, let it be there tonight._

"Are you ready, Veronica?" Kurt shouted. "Don't keep us waiting!"

Finally. Veronica knew exactly where she was going. Two more turns to make. "Kurt? Ram? I'm all yours."

She sidestepped the shining translucent shape she saw on the ground. It wasn't human looking, not like Heather, a formless mass of ambiguous colors. As soon as she stood just beyond it, she called the jocks to her. They blundered straight into the ghost." I brought you food," Veronica said, and the ghost seemed to hear and understand her. "Don't eat me, but do please take them." She had managed to lead Kurt and Ram through the woods to the back of the hospice, where most ghosts were made and formed. She'd given this one a lovely meal, full of fresh blood to draw energy from. Drunk as they were, Kurt and Ram collapsed against each other, in the midst of the shimmering mass pulsing and sucking around them.

They'd probably wake up the next morning from a dead faint with a headache. Give them a lump of bloody steak and they'd be absolutely fine. Veronica turned her back and didn't look at them again. She trudged up to the road, and started to follow it home.

A few cars passed her without stopping. She frowned as she looked into the distance. There was the Snappy Snack Shack sign, garish electric blue in the dark. She could grab a turbo dog and buy some flip-flops to walk home in. She limped on, humming to herself. Nearly there, and she'd won. She'd stuck a pin in them, popped the balloon, and damn well had her own way.

She saw a distant motorcycle on the road. _Well, the sense of propriety in the universe really could be just that bad_ , she thought. _Coincidence, someone else. Don't get your hopes up._ But something like her heart leapt up within her when she saw the rider's long trenchcoat flapping in the breeze.

"What is this shit?" J.D. drew up by her side, stopped, and looked down at her shoeless feet. "Veronica?"

"Your timing's so bad," Veronica said. "If you turned up half an hour ago, I'd have said, take me now on your mighty steed, Sir Galahad. And now I'm the one left standing, because I won. I goddamned won, and I don't need rescuing."

"What happened? Were you with those assholes?"

"Was being absolutely the operative word in this instance." Veronica laughed and laughed. "I got the jocks super drunk and left them passed out in a paddock. It was hilarious! I think I'm still a little drunk," she added. "Keggers with Heathers, no fun at all. Remind me next time. Other key fact, I saved myself. Who wants to be the damsel in distress when it feels so damn great to be the hero?"

"Hey, I'm all in favor of that too." J.D. blew out two streams of blue smoke from his nose.

"I don't need a ride from you, hunter of ghosts, terror of undead minions, self-appointed scourge of bullies," Veronica said. "But you can ask nicely if I want one."

"Veronica, please get on the bike."

"Okay."

—

They ended up at J.D.'s house. The lights were all off; maybe no one was home. Veronica leaned on him as they found the way up to his bedroom. She noticed there were different sheets on the bed; _congratulations on a bare minimum of cleanliness and decency_ , she supposed. She rested on a pillow. "I think I'm too drunk or too tired or something to do anything, if you know what I mean," she said. She was a lot more exhausted than the first time she'd come in, over the elm and through the window. "Can we talk? Can you tell me about ghosts?"

"Why the curiosity? It's just a job. I might as well be making different kinds of slushies. Cherry, coke, blue cherry, pineapple, pineapple crossed with blue cherry ... Quiz me on the menu, ask about the ninety-nine artificial flavours." J.D. settled in beside her on the bed, staying dressed.

"No, I want to know. It's your life. I wanted to get a job at the mall, at the spaghetti joint, but my mom said no. Should've taken a stand," Veronica said. "Don't change the subject. Tell me how ghosts begin."

"Okay. Someone died who didn't want to," J.D. said. "Not everyone creates a ghost. Most likely, accidents, natural causes, and murders. Not usually suicides, with some exceptions, and not people who were killed by a ghost. That means we don't have to care about exponential growth, like the king's chessboard problem. If you're drained or possessed, there's not enough left of you to make another ghost."

Made sense. If one ghost killed a person and made a new ghost, then they could kill two more, then four and eight and so on. Looked like Heather couldn't build her own ghost army.

"What do the different types do to people?" Veronica said. He was sitting cross-legged, so she leaned against his thigh, drawing on his body heat.

"Feeders are the basic ones, the most likely. Find them out the back of hospices," J.D. said. "Walk into them and normal people feel a bit of a chill and need a sandwich. They're just echoes of what they were. You know you can read this stuff in a five-dollar manual, right?"

"Yes, but I've never read them. Come on," Veronica said. "What's it like to hunt them?"

"They're the hardest. I have no idea where they are, so I wander around and hit blind, or where my dad's yelling at me. Half the time they escape into the ground," J.D. said. "If they feed long enough, they start to grow more interesting powers."

"Mmm. That does sound interesting. Like what?"

"Wraiths are the ones that wear humans like tasty sausage skins, poltergeists shift buildings, Ariels make normal people see things that aren't real. Seers always see through those though," J.D. said. "Wraiths and poltergeists are easiest to fight, they have the power to hurt you but you see them coming." He untangled his legs and lay down, one hand under his head.

"You use blood to fight them." Veronica wrapped her arms around him. It was good to be warm and safe, even with someone who'd bumped off one of her classmates.

"Yeah. Only when it's close," J.D. said. "This hotel downtown, someone was murdered about ten years ago. It didn't let go. After it fed, it grew itself into a poltergeist. I think it wanted to stick with the hotel; it must have felt like home. My dad wants to blow up the place and see if that helps, since no one's staying there. And since a developer's willing to pay in cash."

"You can fight them with explosives? Does that even work?"

"It hasn't yet," J.D. said. "My dad's been trying for years. If he could control both powers, he could convince ghosts to stay in a building and blow it and them up at the same time. You should see what he's got in the basement - enough to blow us to Chattanooga. You can channel hunter powers through blank bullets, wood, and iron, but never through dynamite. He should know that's never going to work."

"Everyone's got a right to dream, I guess," Veronica said. "Do you know I've never met your father yet? Say, and what about your mom?" She was just babbling. But she felt suddenly cold as J.D. untangled himself from her, turning his back and looking in the other direction.

"She's dead. The whole crew said it was an accident, but that's not true. She was a hunter, like me. I liked her. You're never going to remember this when you're sober, are you?" he asked. "Dad was testing dynamite to work with her powers. She was supposed to trigger it and wait, but she went inside instead. I think she knew. She hugged me and kissed me before she left that day, and I was old enough that she didn't do that often. After she died, the crew was one hunter short, so I had to take her place. She should have known that would happen."

Veronica didn't like feeling cold, so she pressed herself against J.D.'s back to feel his body heat again. She couldn't think of what to say. "Life sucks," she said.

"And then you die," J.D. finished the quote.

"Preferably, aged eighty-seven in bed with someone nice," Veronica suggested, and went to sleep.

—


	6. Hell is Empty

Veronica Sawyer had a crashing headache, and could really use some black coffee about now. She tried to remember what she'd learned last night, J.D. spilling on ghosts. He ought to know. She could get herself her own seer-textbook to read, hide it under her tampons, and try and find the right intel to defeat Heather Chandler. Feeder, poltergeist, wraith, Ariel. None of them were supposed to be particularly intelligent or coherent, like Heather Chandler was.

She knelt down by J.D.'s suitcase, laying aside books, sometimes with a quick flick through one or two. He owned a copy of _The Anarchist Cookbook_ , very interesting. Her dress was crucially dirty from the woods; she could do the whole girlfriend thing and borrow a big clean men's shirt. Assuming J.D. had any that fit that description. She chose a blue plaid that was only threadbare in one spot.

After she was dressed to her satisfaction, she drew the curtains open and looked down at the familiar elm and the front yard. There was noise coming from there; something going on. J.D. was stripped down to a men's tank top and jeans, and the older man with him the same. The other man was tall and grey-haired. The unknown Mr. Big Bud Dean, she presumed. The seer counterpart to J.D.'s hunter. They were fighting.

It was intense and pretty brutal, but it looked more like a bizarre habit than a sudden emergency. Bud Dean threw a punch at his son's head. J.D. moved in close to block it with a quick jabbing blow, then tried to knock his father over. Bud Dean hit him quick and hard in the solar plexus, a low blow. Then out came the flash of a switchblade. It looked like the two of them practiced disarming as viciously as possible, wrenching wrists and throwing fast, close-range blows like they wanted to harm each other for real.

 _No way this is normal, even for removalists._ Veronica's memories of the seer and hunter pair at the hospice were just regular middle-aged adults. They didn't do this Rambo shit. She headed downstairs. Her eye was caught by something she hadn't noticed before, a gun lying on one of the tables, under a bunch of papers. She picked it up, took note of the weight of it, and put it back quickly. _Is that thing loaded? Don't want to know._ Among all the gym equipment on the far side of the room, there was a machete hanging on the wall like an ornament. They were a weapon-fancying little family here. She looked into the last room down the hall, the way to the basement, and saw several locked, thick red cabinets with lethal-looking labels. She closed the door behind her, and slipped out the back door to head home.

 _A productive day._ Veronica flicked her wet hair behind her back and sat down in the hot steam in her bathroom, wrapped in a soft blue towel. She'd shown up for two of her classes, went second-hand book shopping, and forced herself to study what she'd been seeing lately, no matter how much it repulsed her. Her luck had held, and she hadn't yet heard a peep from Heather Chandler. That stone-hearted bitch. Maybe Chandler would really take her time on the revenge plot ( _the Count of Monte Cristo waited twenty-three years, Heather, do you think you could take him as a role model?_ ), and by then Veronica might have an idea to defeat her.

She painstakingly drew the razorblade up her leg, over the Clairol lotion. Her feet were still an aching, bruised mess, soaking in a bucket of hot soapy water in front of her. Ghosts and seers were on the same wavelength, made of similar stuff. She and Heather were the same as each other now. Murderer and victim, playing out the deadly dance between them, keeping secrets and lies and edged tools hidden in their chests. The steam was thick and heavy; Veronica could barely see to shave. And yet the bathroom temperature was running much colder, instead of hot and humid. She set the razor down to one side and waited patiently.

"You're a quick learner." Heather looked like she was about to enjoy a spa session, her shape in a pink robe with her hair loose around her. She manifested up high, toward the ceiling. The steam dissolved and withdrew as her shape reformed itself. "Don't let go of that. You never know, you might need it soon."

The ghost wasn't supposed to be the real Heather Chandler. Just an echo of the rage and aggression and negativity at the point of her death, turned into an endless raving hunger. Yet her mannerisms and memories seemed so similar. Veronica killed her best friend, and her worst enemy was the part that haunted her.

"You tried to set me up for gang rape. You knew what would happen at that kegger." Veronica glared at her former friend. She would have said no to Duke, if the ghost hadn't been there - no and safety and the quiet night in she'd wanted.

"Tried being the most important part. If you hadn't changed the venue at the last minute, it would have gone down so much worse for you." A part of Heather's silk gown changed shape, forming into a tendril in the air, and reached down and picked up the soap. She managed to spin bubbles off it, floating them idly the air. The pink and gold colouring between the rainbow bubbles made her look like a knockoff of Glinda the Good Witch. "I spent all night in the woods waiting for you and the others to show. It was so boring."

"If we're playing a game, then it sounds like I won that round." Veronica smirked. _Try to provoke her; but don't take it too far._ "Excuse me if I don't cry for your drop-dead-dull date night."

"Did you know there are at least four other seers in town right now? I can't make them believe me, but I could make some lovely suggestions about fingerprinting that suicide note you wrote for me." Heather twirled a lock of ghostly blonde hair around her fingers. "Let's make another deal."

"What kind of deal?" Veronica kept her voice level.

"Pick up that razor. Don't worry, I won't make you slit your wrists. You've noticed I'm all into blood now, but it's so much more satisfying when it's freshly spilled. Bleed for me, Veronica, and you get to stay alive a little longer."

"That's really not a good deal for me. Answer a question first," Veronica said.

"That's why I used to like you, Veronica - you've got moxie," Heather said lightly. She moved like she was sitting on the bench next to Veronica, a parody of a girls' spa day. "Ask away, but I might not give you an answer."

"Today's lunchtime push poll topic, Heather. Would you rather go to heaven, or hang around here as a ghost?"

Heather's eyes darkened. She leaned her head close to Veronica, and whispered in her ear. The horrible blue liquid spilled out of her mouth as she spoke. "There is no such thing as heaven. Hell is empty, and all the devils are here. Now start cutting."

Veronica hesitated. Hadn't done anything like this before. Her parents would think she was going goth, if they noticed. _Don't want to do it anywhere someone will see. And that covers a lot of places, especially if I'm scheduling another midnight croquet session in the near future._ She reached a decision. Her feet were already pretty mangled.

"Fine - you can have your takeaway meal of blood sacrifice, Heather."

It was difficult and painful, trying to force your own hand to pierce your skin. It took her three attempts before blood broke the surface of her big toe.

"Feet, _really_?" Heather sighed. "Do you think I have some sort of fetish, Veronica? Is this what your boyfriend's into?"

"You didn't specify where," Veronica said, and stood up. "So if you feel like it, baby, lick it up."

—

Veronica chose her blue folder, English, and politics books out of her locker at school. She avoided looking at herself in the mirror on the door, closing it quickly. She saw J.D.'s dark figure approaching behind her, and slowed down to walk with him.

"You cleared out of the old Dean place fast the other day," J.D. said. "What's your hidden fear - breakfast in general or my kitchen skills in particular?"

"I saw bits of the Oedipal death battle in the front yard. Is that even normal for removalists?" Veronica said. "Do you like your father?" Her own dad, the actuary, would never whale on his own child with a switchblade - the thought was hilarious. And the implications a little disturbing.

"I've never given the matter much thought." J.D. was looking in the direction of a group of jocks crossing the hallway in letter jackets, his expression detached and abstract. "What do they call that creature? When you cut off one head, and two more take its place?" Veronica shrugged, the word not coming to mind.

The bell clanged. "Don't wait up for me," Veronica said. "I might actually go to class today." She planted a quick kiss on J.D.'s cheek, overhearing someone's giggle as she did so, and set off on her way.

Veronica could hear the grist for the school rumor mill grinding overtime today. For some reason, people's pronunciation of her name seemed to be associated with absolute hilarity. She'd get to the bottom of it, eventually, and in the meantime pretend not to care about any of this crap.

"Heather Chandler spread," Dennis Edelmann was carrying on in the yearbook room, "suicide note top left, flowers to the right, open casket photo if we've got a good one, artwork and poetry. Hey, Veronica, have you got stuff for us?"

In the corner, a brunette and two blondes chatted, their backs turned to Veronica. It looked like the perfect scene of three giggling friends, three ordinary living girls. Except that one of the girls wore her perfect blonde curls tied up with a red scrunchie, above a killer red jacket, and no one else in the room could see her as she stood there with Jennifer Forbes and Grace Bailwick. Heather didn't even turn around to look at Veronica.

Veronica focused on Dennis' atrocious work. "God, no. This is a suicidal Hallmark card, Dennis. Have we all gone mad along with the world?"

"It's really not as tacky as it sounds," Dennis said. "Try looking at it from a different angle?"

"Look, I wrote a coffee-shop review piece and some 'Most Interesting' voting lists. Let's calm people down and do normal teenage bullshit," Veronica said.

"No can do, Veronica. This Heather Chandler story is huge. As a responsible newsman, I'm here to serve my readers."

Grace laughed loudly, and Jennifer quipped: "Someone here knows all about service."

Veronica turned on her. This was too annoying. "Jenny, I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about and why it's funny, but if you can explain the joke I'm sure we'll all find it hilarious."

She only got a few giggles, Jenny and Grace shaking their heads, no matter how she glared at them.

"I would really like it if someone could explain what I did," Veronica said.

"I've got to talk to you about the coffee-shop reviews. Come into my office." Dennis took her aside and shut the door.

"Out with it," Veronica said.

"Look, normally I don't put any credence into what neanderthals like Kurt Kelly and Ram Sweeney say," Dennis said, "but there's a highly specific rumor floating around about you at the kegger party."

"Kurt and Ram got drunk and passed out in a paddock. It's not exactly abnormal for them."

"Actually, they got drunk and wandered into a ghost around the hospice, but the seer found them the next morning," Dennis said. "If I have the story straight. Anyway, those details don't matter. What the rumor says is that before that, you. Um. Fellatio. On both of them. At the same time. What did they say, a swordfight in your mouth?"

"Eww! Sons of bitches." Veronica felt herself shaking, almost too furious to speak. They had no right. They should not have dared.

"See, I thought it was just a nasty rumor too," Dennis said. "Heather and Heather must have taken something they saw way too far ..."

 _After I helped them, too._ "Those ungrateful, two-faced, weaselly, cringing, lying, bitches!"

"Isn't that what I've been saying to you all along?" The face she least wanted to see of all floated up behind Veronica and gave her a little wave. "Have fun with this, Veronica. Let's make you the school skank," Heather said.

—

Veronica twirled the phone cord in her hand, relaxing on her pillow. "Hi, Kurt. It's Veronica. You don't actually remember much about the other night, do you? You and Ram were drunk, then everything got all cold. It was ... boring. Remember when we studied Macbeth, that whole alcohol-increases-desire-but-takes-away-performance thing?" J.D., lying at the foot of her bed, snickered loudly. She threw the pillow at his face. "Never mind. I think fantasies are much more fun when you're sober. I hope you agree. I'd like to try two guys at once." She paused and sighed longingly. "If you want your idea to come true, meet me in the woods behind the school at dawn. Don't forget Ram. And yes, you can write to Penthouse."

She hung up, and met J.D.'s triumphant beam with her own. He handed her a small pistol. Veronica frowned, uncertain about the weapon. Revenge was one thing, but she had limits.

"It's a Beretta 21 Bobcat. Seven rounds, easy to fire, easy to conceal," he said.

"Loaded with blanks?" she asked.

"Something better." He opened a wooden case. They looked real.

"Oh, no - " Veronica said.

"Wait. My granddad scored these in World War 2. They're called Ich Lüge rounds, loaded with tranquilisers. The Nazis used them to fake their own suicides when the Russians invaded Berlin."

"You're so smart. We knock Kurt and Ram out long enough for everyone to think it was a gay suicide pact, and they'll be the laughing stock of the school." She knelt up on the bed, balanced her arms against his chest, and kissed him.

"Have you got the suicide note?" he said.

"Tell me the similarity is not incredible. _Ram and I died because we could no longer hide our gay forbidden love in an uncaring and un-understanding world. Although we were forced to live the lives of beer guzzling sexist pig date rapist assholes, the love we shared for each other was stronger than the joy we felt at every touchdown._ "

"It's incredible similarity." J.D thrust a flowered shopping bag at her. "And here are the homosexual artefacts, exhibit A. Stud Puppy magazine, Judy Garland photo, Marilyn Monroe Halloween mask ... and nothing but the best in quality mineral water bottles for our fake star-crossed lovers." He cocked her a brilliant, heartwarming grin.

"Perfect."

"Our love is god, baby. Let's go get a slushie."

—

She wasn't alone in the woods this time, and Veronica could feel the weight of the Beretta behind her back. It made her feel in control of the situation. Let any jocks approach at their own peril. She and J.D. had all the power. These two lumbering primitive assholes were dinosaurs stuck in the past, little knowing they were about to go extinct by fiery asteroid crashing down from the heavens. She steeled herself to smile and look pretty while Kurt Kelly and Ram Sweeney walked up. It was absolutely the last time she would have to simper to them. Their names would be mud and ashes in everyone's mouth.

"Uh ... hey, Veronica," Kurt started. He actually seemed nervous and uncertain this time. It was a great look for him.

"So do we just whip it out or what?" Ram asked.

"Take it slow, Ram. Strip for me," Veronica said. _No, strip for each other, Kurt and Ram - and better make it a good show._ "You, on the left. Kurt, on the right of the clearing."

"Um, okay." Kurt flung off his letter jacket on the ground. "What about you?"

"You can rip my clothes off for me, sport." Veronica smiled and waited. They looked ridiculous without their football pads, Ram wearing only socks and Kurt in his birthday suit entirely, vulnerable and sloppy and untidy. "On the count of three, boys. One. Two."

"Three." She'd positioned the jocks perfectly. Ram was straight in front of the bush where J.D. waited in ambush, and Kurt was in Veronica's sights. J.D. emerged from hiding and fired, and Ram went down in a cloud of dust. Kurt was still on his feet, staring pop-eyed at Veronica. She must've missed him with the Ich Lüge bullets, fired above his head or something. Aiming the Beretta pistol was a lot more powerful than she'd expected, hitting the recoil and feeling the burning hot metal in her hand for the first time. She felt alive. Kurt screamed wildly and ran. She laughed, loving the feeling. How did Kurt like it now the shoe was on the other foot, and he was running scared and alone through the woods?

J.D. swore. "Stay there. I'll get him." He looked strange; he'd covered his face with the Marilyn mask. That would probably terrify Kurt even more as he chased him down.

Veronica looked down at Ram's body, at the hole and the blood on his neck. He was just unconscious. His eyes stared blankly upward, and his chest looked still. Veronica kicked his floppy foot. He didn't grunt or anything. Even heavily tranquilised people should react a little bit, shouldn't they? Then there was a sign of motion, a sort of ripple across Ram's chest, and Veronica felt relieved of a nameless fear for a moment. But then she started to see colours forming there, red and white and gold. Something shimmered within Ram's body, pushing itself up and outward like a butterfly coming out of a chrysalis, iridescent colours flicking and forming themselves into a smeared blot in the air.

She froze in place, her mouth suddenly dry. No, it couldn't be happening. A third person's laughter filled the clearing, pure and high and sweet-toned, echoing far and wide like the chime of church bells. The girl in the red dress floated above Ram - no, above the _corpse_. Heather reached inside Ram, over his newly shed blood, searching for something rich and strange. She seemed to mould the formless shape, sculpting it, altering it, colouring it brightly and binding it into something that looked almost human. Ram Sweeney's eyes were a frozen, dead blue. His neck was a red, bloody ruin. He wore his letter jacket and uniform, bold red colours coordinating with Heather's clothes. He floated above his own body, looking into the face of one of his killers, wearing the same stupid expression of arrogance and lust he'd had in life.

"Thanks for the gift, Veronica," Heather said.

 _It wasn't me, it was J.D. He killed Ram._ Veronica dropped to one knee, her legs not enough to support her. _Ich Lüge bullets. I'm an idiot. I've done ..._

Feet were pounding near her, a human noise. Kurt was running, herded back to the clearing by J.D. He knew what had happened, he knew what she had done. Kurt screamed, and the scream would bring people. Veronica had him in her sights, perfect dead on center, and the Beretta barked a second time.

Kurt looked shocked, standing still, then reeled, a red bloom forming in the middle of his chest, and then he fell down inches from Ram. He didn't move after that.

J.D. flung down the suicide note, tore off the mask, and stuffed it in the bag. He ran a handkerchief along his weapon, then put it in Ram's right hand. "Remember, Kurt's left handed," he called. Veronica dropped the Beretta down. J.D. roughly grabbed her arm. Someone was coming. He dragged her down the rough dirt path, unyielding, racing to her car. They threw themselves inside and took off their clothes as if their lives depended on it. Just two teenagers making out in a car, nothing that looked suspicious, half-naked and totally occupied with each other. Veronica had seen the cop approach the car in the corner of her eye, but didn't let on. The cop backed off after a while, but they kept the illusion going. Give it a good half hour before they went to school. She was desperate and hungry for pain, atonement, body heat, feeling something.

The car was at a dead stop, parked in the school lot. Two normal teenagers waiting for school to start. Never mind what they'd done.

J.D. was drowsy, satisfied, resting against the side door, and not giving her any goddamn cigarettes. Veronica snatched at the lining of his coat. He woke up, trapped her in the process of pickpocketing, and handed one out for both of them. Veronica started the car lighter, a powerful flame. She dropped the cigarette out of her mouth. She applied the lighter to her hand. Did the bullet feel like that when it went through Kurt Kelly's heart? She screamed, clutching her burned palm. J.D. reached over and grabbed the lighter from her. He thrust his cigarette into the burn, since it was still hot enough to light the end for him. He studied her hand and let her go.

"They'll rise again and tell," Veronica sobbed. "You lied to me. You killed them."

"Don't lie to yourself. You believed me because you wanted to." J.D. blew a puff of smoke. "You wanted them dead."

"Did not!" she screamed.

"Did too."

"Did not, did not, did not! Not listening! Mary had a little lamb, little lamb, little lamb ..." She ignored him. "And, anyway, they were murders, not suicides, they hated dying." Ghosts were more likely formed when the person was angry about death; suicides hardly ever created ghosts. "They'll talk to seers, they'll talk to your father."

"Hence the mask. It was neato, wasn't it?" J.D. smiled and talked faster. "Ghosts aren't smart. They'll say Marilyn killed them, if they can say anything at all. Or if they should say Veronica killed them, I've got you covered."

"Go back there and hunt them," Veronica said. "They'll come back, I know it."

"No, not yet," J.D. said. "We don't even know they're dead yet. Give it time. Then I'll call in a favor with the dumbest seer in the crew, promise. We'll wait and watch and end it if anything happens."

"You really planned this out," Veronica said bitterly. "I should've known. You fucking psycho."

"They were assholes. They had nothing to offer the school but date rape and AIDS jokes. This is our mission, baby - we're making the world a better place for people who act decent, one asshole at a time." J.D. rolled the cigarette around in his mouth.

"For the last time, I did _not_ want them _dead_!"

"I wouldn't shout that if I were you, dear ..." He gestured outside the car. Heather Duke and Heather McNamara were walking through the parking lot together.

"I hate you, I hate you."

Duke sauntered up to them and tapped on the window. Veronica took her sweet time rolling it down to let her in. "Did you two losers know? Kurt and Ram just killed themselves because of a forbidden homosexual love pact. School's cancelled for the day."

—

She was going to too many funerals lately, and in the wrong company, too. J.D. held her hand in the pew. Ram's father finished his tearful eulogy. "I love my dead gay son!"

"What's this I smell in the air, love and tolerance in good old Westerburg?" J.D. whispered to Veronica, acting as if he had every right to smirk like that. "I wonder how he'd feel about a live son with a limp wrist."

Veronica laughed hysterically. She turned her noise into a strangled sob. A young blonde girl in the front row turned around and stared at her, with a tear stained face. She probably missed her brother. Her brother probably thought she wasn't good for anything but baking cookies and making babies, so maybe she'd done the kid a favor. No, that excuse was wrong to make when you were the one who murdered that kid's big brother. Who knew what was wrong, anyway? Veronica could only be certain that her moral compass was spinning every direction except for due north. And certain that Heather Chandler would be waiting for her in the dark, as soon as she stepped away from J.D.'s protection.

That awful song, Big Fun's 'Teenage Suicide Don't Do It', blared over the radio in the Deans' lounge. J.D. fiddled with the dials. Veronica scribbled out some more of her French homework. _Ich Lüge, I lie to you, why the hell didn't I take German._ She tried to parse the next quote from the Little Prince. She was ignoring J.D., ignoring him and the giant murder elephant in the room. Less talk, more homework.

A loud noise at the door made her throw down her pen in frustration. An ink blot spattered on her page. "Oh, great, the beaver's home."

"Jeez, you kids are making too much damn noise!" J.D. called out to his father.

"How was work today, pop? Oh, it was miserable." Bud Dean pushed through the door. He was a tall man, lean and muscular and wearing Adidas, with dark eyes and an empty white smile like a row of coffin lids. "Steve leads us halfway around the world and not a hint of a new poltergeist do we see. Hey, pop, I forgot to introduce you to my girlfriend, the one who made a man of me."

Veronica was uncomfortable with the way Bud Dean's eyes travelled over her, too cold and lingering. She stood up awkwardly and folded her arms.

"Pop, Veronica, Veronica, pop," J.D. said, with no warmth in his voice. "Son, why don't you ask your friend to stay for dinner?"

 _Oh, why not._ "I'll just go powder my nose. Be right back."

She delayed as long as she could, then sat in the corner of the den and did her homework. Bud Dean mostly ignored her, pumping sets of weights on a machine over and over again. Maybe he wasn't such a bad sort, Veronica tried to tell herself. _I mean, I have no reason to assume he's a psychotic killer. Just a man who raised one._ She finally finished her verb conjugations to her satisfaction. _And he's a seer, who_ didn't _recognize me on the spot. Myth absolutely exploded._

"Hey, son, come and eat your greens!" J.D. called out.

Veronica poked at her plate. It was only collard greens, a bit overdone, paired with bleached-white rice. She could tell that at least J.D. wasn't a terrible cook, and if she was being fair she'd have to admit he was probably better than she was. She didn't like to cook, and liked to think it was out of general feminist principles. She twirled together a forkful of the stuff. "You're a vegetarian?" she asked.

"Yeah. It's a weird subcultural thing," J.D. said, glancing at his father. "Son, we're a rare breed. We don't need red meat if we're invulnerable to spirits."

 _He's a psycho murderer who never ever eats cute little bunny rabbits or doe-eyed cows with big fluttering eyelashes or tiny baby lambikins_ , Veronica thought. _How hilarious._ She stifled a freakish laugh.

"Gosh, you're right, pop, we don't need to be like everybody else," Bud Dean chimed in. Veronica looked quickly from Dean man to Dean man again. There was a weird dynamic between these two, with their bizarre roleplaying, and perhaps several basements' worth of stuff going on under the surface that she had no understanding of and didn't want to achieve.

"Say, son, I forgot to send the hand-engraved invitations to the massive hotel blowup. You and your girlfriend doing anything then?" J.D. said.

"Yes," Veronica said. "Sorry, sweetie, big meeting for the yearbook committee. No can watch you blow stuff up." J.D. had said dynamite didn't work to kill ghosts, just the building the poltergeist was using to hide in, but she'd ask how it went afterwards. It might be worthwhile to help herself to certain supplies from the Dean basement.

J.D. looked slightly taken aback by her epithet. She didn't normally get sentimental on him. It was almost like daring PDA in front of parental figures.

"So, what did you say your background was, Veronica?" Bud Dean asked, stabbing into the collard greens like Kurt and Ram used to attack their steak.

 _I didn't._ "We're just ordinary," Veronica said. "My dad's an actuary and my mom's a housewife, chair of the flower arranging committee and the Sherwood ladies' bowling team. It's pretty boring."

"Any removalist relatives in the background?" Bud Dean said. The question took her aback - did he _guess_? - but he looked and sounded casual. She hoped that nothing out of the ordinary showed on her expression.

"I don't think so. We only see people like you when you're passing through," Veronica said.

J.D. rolled his eyes. "The Dean side has a long and proud hunting history, son," he mocked his father. "Gramps, Great-Gramps, and upward. All hunters, except for me. That's why I married a hunting girl. That's where you came from."

Bud Dean barked out a single laugh. "The thing I miss most about her is the home-made dinners, pop. The cooking and bottlewashing standards have really gone downhill lately."

"At least I'll always have my dynamite experiments to remind me, son," J.D. said. "Even if they never work because hunter powers can't be given away like that."

"Pass the salt," Veronica asked. "Gosh, is that really the time."

—

She was alone in her room in the middle of the night, and cold. Too cold. Veronica reached out to pull her blankets back up, but found nothing there. She gradually became conscious, pulling her knees up to her chest under her nightgown. She opened her eyes, and saw her blue blanket floating in the air, lit by the diptych of glowing figures on either side of it.

Kurt and Ram wore their uniforms again, pristine, red jackets and white pants like they were cleaned up for the start of a pep rally. They were as evenly matched as an honor guard, one with a bloodstain through his neck and the other through his chest. They hung motionlessly in the air, with blank blue eyes staring into space, holding the blanket between them. Heather Chandler flew above them, her golden hair brushing the ceiling.

Veronica looked from one jock to the other. "Kurt? Ram? Do you ... know who I am?" she asked.

Kurt's spectral head slowly turned in her direction, his eyes wide and staring. "Hot ..." he mumbled.

"Hungry," Ram chimed in from the other side. His mouth slipped open and stayed open, drooling. It looked like Heather held him back, kept him on a leash to stop him feeding.

"She only murdered you," Heather said. "Remember her, boys?"

They only looked more confused, staring at Veronica and through her, jaws open and faces empty.

So this was what J.D. was talking about. These echoes of Kurt and Ram weren't people any more, nothing more than hungry tigers with vacant, mindless eyes. She wasn't sorry they were dead, but she was sorry she killed them.

"You two are _never_ going to touch me," Veronica said. She reached for her dressing gown and picked up her slippers. "Hey, Kurt, hey, Ram. Did you know that your dads moved to Newark to start a leather bar together? Burying you opened their eyes up and made them realize the homophobic lies they were living. It's fabulous for them. Kind of sucked for your moms and the eleventy-billion siblings you two had between you."

They showed no response, standing and swaying in the air.

"Great gossip about the 'rents, girlfriend," Heather chimed in. "But let's get crucial, is Heather McNamara really moving on to that Brylcreem-for-a-brain idiot Rod Swirsky?"

Veronica ignored her. She picked up the razor from the nightstand and headed downstairs. The ghosts dropped her blanket to the ground and followed her.

It was some sort of rule that every American family needed to have piled-deep loads of archaeological-era crap in the basement. Veronica got on her knees and dug down for what she was looking for. Years ago, her parents stupidly decided to babysit a terrier for a friend of her mom's. The dog smelt awful, ate messily, was barely toilet trained, and flew at anyone and everyone begging to wipe dog hair on them and get a pat. Veronica hated the dog stench, which filled her room even though she never let the animal in there, and hated picking endless hairs off her clothing. When she was left alone with the dog she'd kicked the little beast.

She finally found the old dog bowl under a bunch of other stuff. She set it down on the floor in front of her.

Veronica took up the razor and positioned it on her left wrist, just above her vein. She drew the sharp edge heavy and down, not too far. It was easier this time. She let the blood fall into the dog bowl, drip drip drip, until the bottom of it was mostly covered with a thin red film. Then she covered the wound, wrapped her sleeve tightly around it, and stood back.

"Eat up, doggies."

Heather let Kurt and Ram off their leash. They dipped their heads down to the dog bowl at the same time, slurping up the blood, sticking their ghostly tongues into it. They looked awful, like animals rather than people, degraded and pathetic. Their heads overlapped with each other as they dedicated what attention they still had left to sucking up dregs of blood from the sides and corners of the dog dish. Behind them, Heather seemed to draw strength not by debasing herself but rather through Kurt and Ram. Her form moved and rippled as if she breathed in deeply, taking energy from the other two ghosts. The red and gold colours that ran through her became brighter and deeper, as if she grew more solid.

"I'm going to die, Heather," Veronica said. The ghost smiled. "I mean, as in the general human condition. What are you going to do when I'm dead?"

Heather's perfect face didn't twitch. "Take over the world, I guess. Being dead is so boring when so few people know you exist. But I have power, you keep giving me new followers to play with, and I'm going to enjoy this."

Veronica shook her head. "You're really different to them, to other ghosts." Kurt and Ram were still slurping. "What gives, Heather?"

"More things in heaven and earth, Horatio," Heather said. Her features were sharper and smoother than ever. When she was alive, she'd had skin pores, furrows, tiny childhood scars from pimples unmourned and unmissed. Ghostly, she was as perfect as she was inhuman. "God made me an eagle. I deserve to soar."

—


	7. Girl Detective

She lay on J.D.'s bed, watching him pour disinfectant over the bloody fingernail scratches on his back. He hadn't seemed to mind when Veronica inflicted them. She'd asked, demanded him to keep up with her; drive the world away. J.D. winced slightly as he poured the stuff on. Veronica briefly wondered if she should help him. No, he didn't need help. He needed to be locked up somewhere he couldn't murder any more of her classmates.

She scratched around the scab on her own arm. _I tried to cook macaroni cheese_ , she told J.D. when he asked, and he nodded and didn't ask her any further inconvenient questions. It occurred to her that she hadn't asked about most of J.D.'s damage, either, about various old scars and discolourations on his arms and torso. That was a fair truce. _Ask me no questions, and I promise I'll tell you no lies. Ich lüge._

The old hotel had gone down, and soon after it the poltergeist. Veronica's relationship with J.D. had always had an expiry date attached, and it sounded like the removalists would need to leave town soon for their next job. _He's a hunter; his dad needs him._ Hunters were rarer and more valuable than seers, because they were harder to identify when they didn't come from removalist families. _He'll be gone soon._

"So, I take it the dynamite didn't work the way your pop wanted it to?" she asked casually.

"Of course not. He had Harry bleed over the trigger before he pressed it, but that didn't destroy the ghost with the explosion." Harry was apparently another hunter; Veronica hadn't ever seen him.

"You keep getting bloody for work. Ick," Veronica added, though she had no right to be squeamish, not any more. When hunters bled, it made them more powerful against ghosts. "Couldn't you fill a baggie in advance and keep it in the fridge or something?"

"Doesn't work that way. The power comes from inside - you can't take and store it." J.D. looked at her, unblinking. She could tell he wasn't particularly thinking of his work; he'd answer questions but otherwise set it aside as a topic to be avoided. She wondered whether he too was thinking of leaving town. He watched her with longing eyes as if she was the last girl on earth, as if this was his final chance. Alone in front of his mirror with his first aid kit, white plasters dotting his back, he looked somehow faded and diminished.

"You said you never wanted candy and flowers," J.D. said. "But we ..."

"Stop talking," Veronica said.

"Okay."

He walked back to the bed and knelt in front of her. Her fingers tangled through his hair.

—

Veronica was back at her house by eight in the morning, slipping in through the back door. But it looked like she wasn't having any luck today.

"It's about time, Veronica," her dad called.

"Don't even think of sneaking back into your room, young lady," her mother scolded. "Come and sit down. I made blueberry pancakes. Your favourite."

 _Like blueberry pancakes are going to fix_ anything _, Mom_. It was the first time in a while she'd sat at the same table with both her parents. Her father was dressed for work, her mother in a nice dress.

"Honey, we're very concerned about you," her mom said.

"Skipping classes," her dad interjected. "All those sleepovers with Heathers. The teenage suicides sweeping your school. We're worried about you."

Veronica helped herself to a pancake with cream cheese. "Okay, you got me dead to rights, sheriff, I'm guilty," she said. "I've got to confess my crimes. Some of those sleepovers were with a boy. But you have absolutely nothing to worry about, I'm on the Pill."

Her father gave an uncomfortable snort. Her mother tut-tutted. Veronica calmly carved a forkful of the pancake with cream cheese. Like Charlotte went on cutting bread and butter, Werther's body borne out on a shutter. ( _Don't think about the ghosts in the basement._ )

"In that case, I'll put some informational pamphlets in your room," her mom said. "I had higher expectations of abstinence-only education, somehow. In retrospect, I'm not really sure why."

"And do we get to meet this boy at any point?" her father said. "I don't have a shotgun, but I do have my trusty slide rule."

"That's really not a good idea," Veronica said. "He's leaving town soon. His dad's the head removalist and they're just about finished. I'm sure time and maybe a new car will heal my broken heart." _Not heartbroken at all_ , she hoped they heard coming through her voice. She drank some of her tea.

"Oh," her mother said. There was something dangerously sentimental in the way her voice changed. "Of course. He's that nice removalist young man who saved you and brought you home the night of the party. Why didn't you tell us, dear? That's very romantic."

"Trust me, J.D. is the opposite of romantic." Veronica stood up and pushed her chair back. "I've got to motor or I'll be late for school. You don't want me skipping any more classes, do you?"

—

Ms. Phlegm had another love-in at the cafeteria. High-quality glamor shots of Heather and Kurt and Ram lined the walls, mixed in with cardboard butterflies and pulsingly pink hearts. The hearts were almost the colour of earthworms, burrowing into gravedirt. There were more TV cameras. Endless opportunities to use teenage suicide as pure entertainment.

Heather Duke had preened well to look good on camera. Overstated makeup and well-sprayed hair, worn with a red embroidered jacket that wouldn't have looked out of place on a lead baton-twirler in a parade. She walked arm in arm with Heather McNamara, dressed in primrose yellow and grey.

"Hi, Veronica. Haven't seen you around much lately," Duke said, loud enough to be overheard. "You must've been really desperate to blow a pair of fags. Did you let them do you in the ass too?"

 _I don't have time for this crap_ , Veronica thought, and bared her teeth in a terrible imitation of a smile.

Heather McNamara looked a little uncomfortable, but laughed weakly anyway.

"Anyway, croquet at your place this afternoon?" Duke said. "Ms. Phlegm is getting started. Let's show some school spirit."

The wave of healing synchronicity burst over the students with joined hands. Or so Ms. Fleming put it in her delusional way.

 _What the fuck is healing synchronicity?_ Veronica wondered. Cameras, lights, pretty girls looking artistically sad on camera, Phlegm reliving her hippie days of crusading in the sixties, standing in the center and soaking up all the attention as if this were all about her. They were feeding on the deaths just like ghosts fed on people - the only difference was that they lied about it. Blind mouths, swollen with wind that rotted them from the inside, hollow men stuffed with paint and straw. They were worthless and never gave a damn about any of it.

And she couldn't stand to see Heather Chandler's ghost in the midst of it all, glorious and shining, soaking up all the attention and worship and fresh human lives.

Veronica stumbled into the locker room, early for phys ed. She turned on the water and stepped under the shower fully dressed. The water soaked her hair, ruined her hairstyle, drowned her clothes. Something like cleansing, something cold and pure and incorruptible. The water cascaded around her and blocked out other sounds and voices.

Then the voices became louder, and couldn't be ignored. The other girls rushed in, talking about Heather. They followed Veronica, and then there was a wave of chaos, girl after girl in the shower fully dressed, lemmings rushing mindlessly over a cliff. Veronica ran out.

"Why are you soaking wet, Veronica?"

She turned with a snarl, ready to give a blistering verbal counterattack. But the tone had actually been kind.

"Are you okay?" Martha Dunnstock asked. It had been a long time since they'd spoken. Martha sounded worried.

"I'm having a shit day. Have three guesses why and the first two don't count," Veronica said. Martha looked hurt; she'd taken it the wrong way. "Jeez, Martha, not everything is about you, I didn't mean it like that."

"I really need to talk to you. Can we go somewhere private?" Martha said. Veronica let Martha take her into the supply storeroom, switch on the light, and close the door. _If she needs to yell at me for bullying her with the Heathers, I'm leaving._

Veronica saw a familiar shimmer passing through the walls and in the air, and tried to ignore it. Heather had no power any more to tell her or Martha with whom to spend their time.

Martha took a deep breath, looked down at the dusty floor, and finally met Veronica's eyes. "I don't think Kurt and Ram died because they were gay. I think they were murdered, and I think I know who did it."

"My gosh. This just got _interesting_!" Heather Chandler pulled herself together. Her ghost stood some way behind Martha's left shoulder, floating like the midnight vision of Banquo at the feast.

"Martha, why would you even - why would you say such a crazy thing like that?" Veronica demanded.

"I have proof." Martha reached in her back jeans pocket. "Kurt wrote me this sweet note, not long before he died. He remembered me from the old days, when we were kindergarten boyfriend and girlfriend. He remembered the time we got a slushie together. This proves he wasn't gay!"

It was the note Veronica wrote in the cafeteria, sent to Martha by Heather. She recognized her own fake handwriting when she was being Kurt. She stared at her own handiwork and could hardly think of anything to say.

"Martha, they wrote a suicide note. They were probably just in the closet, trying to hide - " Veronica stammered.

"Lots of people forge notes. You forged that note for Mrs. Hickman to get me out of dissecting baby rabbits in seventh grade, remember?"

She did remember, that was the trouble.

"I think Jason Dean did it," Martha said. "He brought a real gun to school and fired on Ram and Kurt in the cafeteria. He has access to firearms and he's spooky."

Heather burst into outright laughter. She acrobatically twirled and spun in the air. "I love this fat girl!" she cheered Martha on. "She's brilliant! Why did I never talk to her when I was alive?"

"You're really reaching, Martha, just because J.D.'s an outsider you can't blame - " Veronica stumbled.

"And what's your psychotic boyfriend going to do to this girl, when he knows that she knows?" Heather Chandler mused. "Sorry, Veronica, it looks like you're going to lose another classmate to a tragic teen suicide!"

"I came to you on purpose because I had to," Martha said. "I need you to pick the lock and check his locker for clues."

"No," Veronica said. "This is a dumb theory and I'm not listening to you."

"For old times' sake. Please, Veronica. We pulled some pranks together ourselves, back in the old days," Martha said. "You were the Raffles of sixth grade. They called you 'Fingers' Sawyer. Can you pick this one locker for me now?"

"My lawbreaking days are over, Martha," Veronica said. This line seemed to amuse Heather greatly, and she cackled madly.

"Do it, Veronica! I bet you'd find all sorts of interesting things in that locker. Actually, I _know_ you'd find all sorts of interesting things in that locker. One good thing about being a ghost? The whole walking through walls deal." Heather smirked.

Martha watched her, with pleading, determined eyes. She probably wouldn't give up on this. Veronica took a deep breath, and let something cold inside her think it through and make a decision.

"Playing Nancy Drew doesn't suit you, Martha," she said. "You know, I was the one who wrote you that note. Kurt and Ram were in on it too, and all the Heathers. It was only a joke."

She took a pen out of her pocket, and scribbled a few more lines on the note in Kurt's writing. _Dear Martha, I love you more than Huckleberry Finn loved Jim and I am definitely not gay and I think you are beautiful and thin. Love from Kurt._ She thrust the note back in Martha's face.

Martha cowered back from her. Her face grew red and blotchy. "But - but why - "

Veronica walked closer to Martha, heels tapping on the ground, her voice as cold and cutting as a knife. "Grow up and face the facts, Martha. Kurt and Ram were assholes who thought you were a fat stupid pig. At least try not to act like it."

The tears came out. Martha put an elbow over her face to hide the blubbering and choked. She forced the door open and ran down the halls.

Heather Chandler laughed even louder, her red and gold shape alight with pure mirth. "Color me impressed," she said. "I had so much fun watching that I'm not even mad at you, Veronica. You're almost as good at emotionally terrorizing that girl as I used to be. See you around."

—

"Let's play. I'm red," Heather Duke said. She and Heather McNamara strolled over to the croquet set. Veronica slowly put her book down. They hadn't turned up when she expected, and she'd hoped they weren't coming at all. She would have liked to lose herself in a good book.

Duke held up a small bag. "Sorry we're late. We did the Chinese food fair with Carl Kellerman and Rod Swirsky." The two boys were hockey players; if Westerburg had a slightly better hockey season and worse football season, they might've been on the top of the hierarchy instead of Kurt and Ram. Now, of course, they had no competition. "I'm such a wonton slut," Heather announced with pleasure, and licked soy sauce from her fingertips.

She'd actually been digesting calories since Heather Chandler died. It was a good look for her. She had roses in her cheeks rather than waxy, flaking skin, and a little more cleavage. It was like she was a ghoul from a story, going to a grave and fattening up from eating corpses.

"I saved the last one for you." Heather offered the bag.

"No thanks."

"While we were there, there was this hilarious announcement over the radio," Heather Duke said. She bent down to pick up the red mallet. "Martha Dumptruck took a walk through traffic with a suicide note pinned to her chest. Just another geek trying to imitate the popular people, and failing miserably."

Blood pounded in Veronica's ears, and she couldn't hear herself think. "Is she ... is she dead?"

"No. Only a few broken bones." Heather Duke rolled out the red ball. "That's what makes it so funny."

Veronica hit her. Her hand seemed to move of its own accord and strike Heather Duke, hard, on the cheek.

"Ow! What's your damage, Veronica?" Heather squawked. Veronica grabbed her coat and ran, leaving them behind her.

She found her way to the town hospital. The bouquet of chrysanthemums she'd bought on the way hid her face. She walked around the waiting rooms, searching, and rushed toward Mr. and Mrs. Dunnstock when she saw them. She recognized them - Mr. Dunnstock tall and hearty but grey-faced, as if the life had been sucked out of him, Martha's mother tiny and nervous and in the process of ripping a cloth handkerchief to threads. They blankly stared at Veronica as she ran up to them, and she felt another stab of guilt that they plainly didn't know her from Adam. It had been so long since she'd last gone to Martha's house; so much had changed.

"I need to see Martha - I'm from her school - "

"Who are you?"

"Veronica, Veronica Sawyer. I was the one who fell out of your treehouse when we were playing musketeers ..."

"Yes, I think I remember that. Martha can't see anyone right now," Mrs. Dunnstock said. She sounded like she was on the verge of weeping, breaking off her words quickly.

"Then, please, just give her these when you can." Veronica thrust the flowers into Martha's mother's hands. She left the hospital, out into the fresh air, knowing where her next stop was. Where it had to be.

 _It's over, J.D. We're officially breaking up._

She rounded the corner of J.D.'s house and knocked on the door. His father let her in. She sank into a chair, her legs feeling suddenly empty. She heard the clink of glass in the kitchen and a tap turning on. Bud Dean came out with two clear glasses and placed one in front of her, filled with water or something that looked like it.

"Have a drink," he said. She wasn't thirsty. "Jason isn't here."

She started to get up to leave.

"You'll want to hear me out," Bud Dean said. He was between her and the door. The way he stood and the cold look in his eyes were casually intimidating, like a tiger in human shape, but with a sharp intelligence. "Regarding your extracurricular activities with my kid."

"Look, I really think you should have this deeply embarrassing conversation with my parents, and anyway we are both overage in Ohio," Veronica said.

She could see the chilly amusement in his face, as if he'd deliberately led her onto that fish hook just to watch her squirm.

"I wasn't talking about your games of grabass. In my line of work, I hear a lot of whispers," Bud Dean said. "Most of them don't mean anything. But sometimes, I get to talk to a ghost who's just that little bit more articulate and aware than the rest. They're freaks, usually tougher than average. You gave me a fine one. I like a challenge, and the worse it gets the bigger the check at the end of the day. Sometimes, they give you a bonus line or two to reel in. I'm talking about the Westerburg murders. You damn kids got _sloppy_."

"She told you," Veronica whispered.

A brief flicker of something like surprise crossed his eyes, then Bud Dean returned to his reptilian composure. "I never said she was a she. So you're another seer. Why didn't you bother to register, kid? Makes a great part-time job even if you're not planning to enter the profession. Still, it doesn't matter to me."

"Then call the cops. Do what you have to do," Veronica said. She stood up. She wanted to back away from him, but there was nowhere to run to. She'd seen how he moved before, when he battled his own son in the yard, how he fought and pressed a brutal attack.

"I'm still mulling that over," Bud Dean said. "It's bad for my bottom line if I lose a hunter, but I can always train a new one. As for you, I'm guessing you'd prefer college over twenty to life."

"I really don't understand," Veronica said. What would her parents do when they found out about this - this absolute madness? I really thought they were tranquilizer bullets, judge! Heather had won; this was a nightmare.

"Take your time to think it over, sweetheart. You can start by doing me a few favors, then I'll think about where this goes," Bud said. He didn't really smile; it was more like he bared his teeth, all capped in a perfect white.

"Like, you want me to sell my car and leave the money in an unmarked bag at a secret location?" Veronica asked.

He understood she was playing dumb. "I don't want your pocket change, kid. You need more discipline. Like you said, you're overage in Ohio. Let's move this conversation upstairs."

Veronica reached behind her, on the table covered with papers. The gun was still there. She held it up.

Bud Dean _tsk_ ed. He was still moving purposefully toward her. He'd hit her, knock it out of her hands easily. "Sweetie, the way you're holding that thing, you're more in danger than I - "

The bullet noise was deafening in the small room.

Veronica dropped the gun and bent over - over the _corpse_. One bullet in the upper torso. He wasn't breathing any more. She took her handkerchief out of her pocket and picked up the gun with it, gently wiping it clean.

"This is your fault, Heather," she said aloud, though she didn't quite believe it.

The removalists used short-range radios to keep in touch with each other. Bud Dean had his clipped to his waist. She got a pickup.

"Hi, son! I just tried to blackmail your girlfriend," she started with. "You have any samples of my handwriting available?"

"What the fuck? Ver - "

"Keep your voice down! I'm your dad, I'm talking weird, can you come home soon?" Veronica hissed.

The answer came slowly, flat and stunned. "Don't tell me. Fuck. What have you done."

"Question of the day: would you like me as your stepmother?" Veronica sing-songed.

There was a long pause. "Second drawer in the study. I'm there in ten."

The footsteps took the stairs two at a time, pounding heavily. Veronica jumped up from what she was doing.

He'd lost control in a way he'd never done for Heather's murder, not for Kurt nor Ram. J.D.'s jaw was clenched tightly as a wound spring, his eyes could have spat fire, and his fists were balled, knuckles white. For the first time, Veronica wondered if he'd hit her, throw a punch.

"He _knew_ ," Veronica said.

"Shit." J.D. looked down once, then put a hand over his eyes. He paced the room like a trapped animal. He looked frightened for the first time, below his anger.

 _Good. You_ should _be frightened_ , Veronica thought.

"He accidentally blew up Mom five years ago, I suppose that counts as a motive," J.D. spat out. "Always thought he'd go down fighting. He was careful, he was good at it, but that's the nature of the work."

"Check the scene. I thought you were the suicide-faking expert here," Veronica snapped.

"Okay - not much time before I _discover the body_ ..." J.D. brought himself to look down again. "Fine. My dad was an asshole. A right handed asshole." He moved the gun from left to right. "At least you managed to shoot on the left side."

Veronica pointed to the note. He picked it up to glance at it. "Fuck you. Short and elegant. Now get out of here."

—

The third henchman had joined Heather's entourage. Tall and pale-featured, in white jeans and jacket, color coordinated with Kurt and Ram. For someone so effortlessly threatening when he was alive, in death Bud Dean was just another lost soul. Sometimes he called out for someone named Deanna, looking around with bleak and empty eyes.

Veronica bled into the dog bowl and kicked it away from her. Heather's minions feasted, growing in power and control.

—


	8. Fun in Funeral

The funeral was small, all-male in demographics, and over nothing more inspiring than a box full of ashes. J.D.'s thoughts turned to Veronica again. He'd gone to all her funerals, shouldn't she come to his? Then again, he'd have gone to see the results of his work even if she hadn't wanted to attend. And this funeral was for an exclusive crowd.

Veronica was outside the removalists' world, and he liked that about her.

The crew was six strong, not counting himself and his dad, four removalists and two clean-up guys. Walter and Steve had been there practically since the beginning; they remembered his mother.

She'd tried to tell J.D. what it meant to be a hunter. Not long before she died, she came home with someone else's blood still caked in her hair and talked about her two selves. People have trouble inflicting pain on other people, even things that look human and aren't, she said. There was a part of her that loved and a part of her that killed. Damp down on what you felt, become empty, and let training and reflexes guide you forward. A hunter saved lives, she'd say, a little sadly.

Mom had expected he'd follow in her footsteps, but she probably wouldn't have made him do it.

Dispensing with emotions wasn't something J.D. turned out to have trouble with, when he started in the field. Expressing emotions, however, was a problem. He was currently trying for withdrawn and hoping it passed off as shellshock.

He'd had about two hours of sleep in the last three days, sitting hunter's vigil over his father. It was an old tradition, to wait and watch after a seer died, so that any final indignity of a ghost rising from their corpse would be quickly ended. Perhaps something had already happened before he'd come back to the house that day. But even if that particular ghost had risen, he himself had nothing to fear from it. Hunters were invulnerable.

It was a professional and unruffled gathering. With Bud Dean, you always knew the score and the cost and the game, and the only surprise was how tightly he could screw you and still stay within the rules. The crew based their loyalty on paychecks and would only stick around long enough for the last rites, out of some testosterone-soaked code. Bud Dean was never the type to hire smarter than he himself was, so they weren't that hard to cope with.

Could Veronica have dealt with this any other way? Damn it, Veronica. She should have just stayed away. He should have been able to work something with his dad. Let himself get pounded in a training session or two, quit school and be a full-time hunter, pay in blood and time and keeping quiet about the stuff he'd seen his father do. He still had no idea how his father found out, which was dangerous.

And where the hell was Veronica? Find her later. Think about her later.

The service closed.

"It was out of the blue," Harry said. He'd been around for three years, a hunter, thirty-something and ambitious. "I'd no idea there was anything wrong with your old man."

The thin ice of a reason. J.D. had already learned that death let other people warp and shape the context into what suited them. Twirl around Bud's kaleidoscope and you got Mom's death, trying a new brand of semi-legal dietary supplements, and a life spent fighting and a body just starting to betray him.

"You never really know people, I guess," J.D. said. "Mom wouldn't have wanted this. What happened to her was an accident ..." _It wasn't an accident and I don't know what she would have wanted._ "Since we came here, I hadn't spent much time with him outside work. I should have noticed something."

"Yeah, you were off with the girlfriend, right? The girlfriend that I don't see anywhere in evidence here," Walter said dryly. He fit a seer's stereotype perfectly, with a piercing glare he'd probably worked long and hard on in front of a shaving mirror, and liked to act like he observed anything and everything. In truth, what he noticed correlated to people with half a brain rather than people with a seer's powers.

"She is a girl, isn't she? Just checking," Steve asked. His partner Harry gave him a bit of a glare, as if that crossed the line. Harry went in closer to J.D., making a move to dominate the conversation and draw him aside. It was easiest to hear out what he had to say now.

"Look, I'd like to make you an offer for the business, kid. Big Bud Dean Removalists earned a solid reputation for getting the job done, and I'd hate to see that go to waste," Harry said.

Bud Dean had last made a will a month after his wife's death. He had one blood relative left at that point and wasn't the charitable sort. J.D. wouldn't have put it past the old man to create a safety deposit with 'if I'm dead open this evidence' inside it, one final fuck-you, but nothing had turned up.

"All reasonable offers considered. He knew you wanted to start your own crew. I think this is what he'd want," J.D. said. He hoped he got the tone right. People were supposed to put the most convenient and sappy words possible in the mouths of those too dead to contradict them.

"I'll put a contract together. You decide if you want to join my crew, kid. You know what the hell you're doing, you're cheap, and I can hire you a new partner." J.D. was only an apprentice, and not even that without a living supervisor. That meant minimum wage.

"I don't know. I'm thinking about finishing the school year here," he said.

"Don't think too long. I need to move soon." Harry went in for a manly handshake and took to his car.

When J.D. got back to the house it was quiet, a lot quieter than he'd subconsciously expected it to be. Dark, cold, and surprisingly echoey with only one person there. He made some coffee, which was pretty much what he'd lived on for the past few days, and knew he was too far sleepless for it to do anything. He sat on the couch and waited for consciousness to slip out of his head.

The earth-shattering aural torture of the phone woke him up, with afternoon sunlight streaming through the window. He threw a cushion at the receiver and missed, then stumbled over to pick up.

"It's me," he heard. Took him a few bleary seconds to recognize Veronica's voice over the line.

"About time. I've noticed a shortage of breaking and entering in my room lately." He still wasn't sure whether he wanted to yell at her or make out with her. He understood why she'd done what she did, so maybe it was pointless to get mad. His father's way with women was something he'd never wanted to emulate. Bud was always cold and careful, infrequently choosing someone, so Veronica should have been off limits without the blackmail opportunity.

"If you want to see me, go to Il Pugnale at the mall tonight. I booked under your name for seven o'clock," Veronica said.

"It's not like we have to sneak around," J.D. started to say, but she'd hung up on him. He could call back, or sleep some more. Option two sounded like the best choice at this point.

You could tell the spaghetti joint catered to teenagers and extramarital couples looking for a little privacy. The booths at the back of the main dining area fit about four each if at full capacity, and were walled in on all sides. He ordered a drink so the waiter wouldn't feel obliged to spit in their food, and waited.

Veronica. Partner in crime. Partner in bed and a few other places, like her neighbors' swingset. Forger, lockpick, thief, shooter. Brilliant and acid and spike-tongued. A fire in the darkness, all smooth soft skin unbroken by the world, grasping and burning with body heat and need. She wished for the assholes at Westerburg High to go away and they'd worked together to make that happen.

He had almost called her back in Heather Chandler's kitchen to put down the cup with the drain cleaner, but changed his mind at the last moment. That time it was different. Curiosity, malice, breaking the pattern of seven schools in seven states and this time _not_ letting the assholes get away with it. Chandler died, and the people she attacked were _free_ , and he and Veronica won.

At the time, he thought Veronica maybe knew she picked up the wrong cup. Now he wasn't so sure. In any case, they had some good times. And when J.D. saw how blind the rest of the world was to what really happened, he realized the possibilities here.

He already made his mind up about those two jocks the day of Heather Chandler's funeral, watching them make that Martha kid's life miserable. Veronica needed something extra to send her over the edge. That night he knew those assholes had done something, she was barefoot and looked like she'd been dragged through the woods by her hair, but the emotion that boiled off her like waves of hot lava was triumph not fear. There was strength in her and he respected that. It took those jerks' next dumb moves to turn her over to his way of thinking. And they did it, pulled it off, killed those two assholes and ran to the car with their hearts racing, frantically reaching for each other.

But afterwards, when Veronica should have been even more victorious, she was angry and withdrawn. She touched her bare hand to her car cigarette lighter and screamed like she was surprised to find it burn her. Later, J.D. had understood that the cut on her arm probably wasn't from macaroni cheese, but she'd have to learn for herself that crap like that never fixed anything. He hadn't known how to deal with Veronica's resentful silences. It was like winning a glorious conquest only to have it all turn to ashes in your mouth, like a companion always whispering in your ear _look behind you for you are mortal_ at a triumphal parade.

J.D. looked at his watch. She was a bit more than fashionably late at this point. If he thought about it, there was a weird kind of symmetry. He helped Veronica end the people who made her life miserable. She killed his father.

( _Mom killed herself, and he'd known or guessed at the reasons why and didn't and couldn't do anything._ )

Veronica could help him catch up on what new horrors were unfolding at Westerburg High. Hydra, he'd remembered the word for it. Cut off one head, and two more grow in its place. Two new interchangeable jocks going around with Heathers again. More assholes emerging to ruin everyone else's lives. More work for him and Veronica to do.

Or was she even coming? He shook his head and watched the door of the booth. Just give her a little more time. The stupid waiter popped his head in again. J.D. ordered two more drinks, idiotic, risible, hopeful optimism prompting him. Both glasses were still untouched in front of him when Veronica finally arrived.

She looked incredible, dressed like she was going to prom or something, a filmy fragile blue skirt that clung to her legs like silk, a long-sleeved jacket with painted panels, more war-paint on her face than usual. _Frankly, I'd rather get you out of those clothes but it definitely makes an impression._

The booth slammed closed behind her. J.D. rose from the table and went to her. Her perfume was sharp and strong, pine and rosemary. She was close enough to touch, but she didn't reach back to him.

She looked him in the eye and spoke, her voice hard-edged and icy, as if she'd long planned what to say and struck it home like a dagger in the back.

"You murdered your father," Veronica said. "You touched the gun, the note. After I already wiped my prints off."

 _Not left handed my ass_ , J.D. thought. He was amazed at how utterly fucking adroit she'd been, manipulating him like a piece on a checkers board. He was more impressed than anything else.

"You had plenty of motive," Veronica continued. "I mean, I have literally seen him hit you."

 _No. She really didn't understand_ , J.D. thought, and somehow that hurt more. That had been _training_.

"Don't worry, I'm not dim," Veronica said. "I realized that Kurt and Ram didn't have a swordfight in your mouth. Heather never did anything to you. Now this one's all yours. We're breaking up. If I go down, you go down harder. Stay away from me."

He kissed her, held onto her. She didn't mean what she said. There was always that blast of raging hormones between them. He could show her, remind her what they had together. At first it felt like she was kissing back, touching him, the same electric heat as before, but then he realized that she wasn't playing. She pushed back, trying to get free, so he stopped. He sat back down while Veronica stumbled away from him, even angrier, her lipstick wet and smudged.

"Quit school, leave town," she said. "Go to Washington, go to Tibet. Just don't talk to me and don't come near me." Then in a flash she was gone, slamming the door of the booth behind her.

He'd been so fucking stupid. What should he do in a time like this? _Get blackout drunk_ came to him as absolutely the best possible solution.

—

 _Note:_

Veronica is following Quinn Morgendorffer's advice here: "Daria, if you look your best when you blow a guy off, it makes them feel like you care."

J.D. is one of extremely few characters who would consider 'you manipulated me into framing myself for my father's murder' a turn-on.

—


	9. Memories and Musketeers

_February 9th, 1985, Atlantic City_

Something was rotten under Atlantic City. A week ago, an ordinary businessman knocked out his younger brother with a length of plumbing pipe, then cut out his heart and ate it. He slit his own throat afterward. Some isolated incident of a sicko in a family dispute.

Except that the trend caught on. A women's book club meeting at a library did the same thing to one of their number, and this time some of the perpetrators were still alive to tell their story. The same thing happened again in an elementary school, and a boardroom meeting above a casino.

It was a particularly vicious and dangerous ghost, an Ariel, sinking illusions into innocent victims and feasting on the blood that resulted.

It was only a few months since J.D. had joined the crew. A few months since that night in a hotel room in Dallas, waiting for Mom to come home. Her idea of take-your-kid-to-work-day was half past never when your job was ghost hunting, even though he had her powers. She was late, but normally that just meant he could get away with staying up and reading. Instead, his father and the entire crew showed up at the door, without her, and then he'd known something had gone very wrong. _I think she knew. She said goodbye like she knew. She gave up._

There was no lower age limit to be an apprentice, since even a little kid with removalist powers was more likely to survive a ghost attack than an adult. And J.D. didn't consider himself a little kid, even if he was still waiting for a growth spurt. His father signed him on, he wore a hunter's badge like his mother, and they were on the trail of another ghost.

They crew had mapped out the past ghost attacks and were listening in to police radio. Ghosts didn't travel any faster than wind, so that narrowed things down. They split up into three pairs to cover more ground. J.D. could tell his father thought they were close, so at least one pair would be in place to find the Ariel as soon as it attacked again.

This street was lined with gold and floodlights, with unbelievably horrifying canopies above the road glittering with advertising and pure tackiness. The whole block was a giant casino. Plenty of people lined the streets, making it a good target for a ghost seeking blood. J.D. caught up with his father, watching his face for signs that he'd seen something. He knew he had to stay close and wait for a clear shot at the ghost. They rode the escalator up to the casino itself, getting in deeper among the crowd. Some people - the _smart_ people, in point of fact - spotted the removalists' badges, looked nervous, and like a furniture truck started to make a move.

"It's here," his father said, looking up. And then the crowd started to attack.

"Murderer!" a man screamed. They weren't trying to fight the ghost, just the removalists. J.D. couldn't tell what the ghost made the crowd see but it was probably something awful. The mob fell on the hunter and seer, separating them from each other. J.D. ducked under an old woman's arm - "Pedophile!", she shouted, thanks to the ghost's delusions, which was pretty dumb considering he was in middle school - and ran straight into a man who grabbed him by the collar. So he sucker-punched him in the groin, and the guy howled in pain and let go. When they could still feel pain, it meant they weren't wraiths, just easily fooled.

Deafening gunshots rang in the air. His father had already fought his way free and fired blanks toward the ceiling. The sound was enough to break some illusions, make people finally run away. The area cleared, leaving only a few people with injuries behind, lying on the thick plush carpets.

His father yelled out instructions to him. Looked like there was an opportunity. J.D. took out his own gun - weapon of _if you so much as touch this without orders you have no idea of the world of pain you will know_ \- and tried to track the right angle. It was only loaded with blanks, since the power to hurt a ghost didn't lie in the weapon at all. He fired twice, and thought he might've hit it.

Then a man groaned and got up from the carpet. He lurched and stumbled - not like someone who knew how to fight, not even like a person - and bullrushed J.D. Apparently, the ghost had decided that the hunter was the biggest threat of the two removalists.

He knew how to fight. His dad wasn't going to rush in to do this job for him. Probably meant it as an extra training session. The wraith's body was on him now, moving fast, off-balance. J.D. slipped aside, then used the man's own weight and momentum against him. The wraith fell against the top of the escalator, overbalanced, then tipped over the rail and fell. He didn't scream as he hit the ground.

J.D. looked back at his father. His dad reached for a woman on the ground. She was dressed like a casino employee, with big round glasses in bright yellow frames. She looked completely unconscious. His father slammed her face against the wall hard so that she bled, from the glasses smashed over her face.

" _Come on. Come here and feed_ ," J.D.'s father hissed, staring at the thin air. His seer's power let him talk to ghosts, lure them and sometimes convince them to go where he wanted. Silver-tongued, like Saruman. The woman's blood was the bait. J.D. stepped into position. The ghost had abandoned the body it had used up, and it was wounded, it would try to feed again.

Then he got the signal, and punched as hard as he could into the empty air in front of his father. He only felt a slight drag of resistance, but he'd been told that knocked a ghost to fragments. His father nodded.

"That's done it," he said. It was over.

J.D. walked back to the escalator. Something drove him to look down. There was no blood or anything, but the man who'd been possessed didn't look like he moved or breathed at the bottom.

"How many floors?" his father asked from behind him.

"Three. I think."

"Ghosts respect brains about as much as they do bodies. He was as good as dead the moment that wraith went inside him," his dad said. "Watch that sloppy footwork of yours.'

J.D. gripped the handrail with both hands, not looking back at his father, and found himself thinking that on Monday he'd be back at school. Fighting like this was easy. People were hard. They'd think he was weird and assume he was weak, and he couldn't fight back because that would see him expelled again. Before Mom died, she'd homeschooled him herself, which was a lot simpler.

He thought, there was the sort of cruelty because people felt like it. He could hear his father talking to the woman with smashed glasses, trying to wake her up and tell her what she should believe had happened to her. And then there was the sort of cruelty that happened along the way of just wanting something to eat. He knew which of the two was worse. J.D. looked down again at the man at the bottom of the escalator.

It was the first time he'd killed a person.

—

In the morning, in Sherwood, Ohio, J.D. almost took hold of one of his dreams, as if there were someone warm wrapped up over his back. He lost hold of that fantasy quickly as reality and a crashing headache set in. He was alone. He'd recently drunk a lot of alcohol. Apparently, this caused him to sleep on the kitchen floor for some reason. And also smash what appeared to have been a perfectly good bottle of red wine against the wall. It looked like a river of blood had run over the tiles. Alcohol normally lasted a long time in their house; J.D. doubted his father would have bought it at all if not for social conventions. Prefer protein shakes and you might as well be wearing makeup and lip-syncing to Gloria Gaynor. Bud only drank in company, and sometimes used a measuring glass to limit himself to the perfect diet. J.D. gingerly picked up the glass shards.

J.D. cleaned the hamster cage and then the house, bitterly nursing his hangover. Scrubbed out the john, took out the trash, started junking his father's room. He threw together some questionable potato dumplings out of the almost-expired dregs of the fridge, eating straight from the pan.

Harry and the crew had the next job lined up, cleanup after some forest fires in New Mexico. He'd already decided not to go with them, and so he wouldn't bother watching them clear out. The whole process of dealing with the business and settling his father's leavings was going to take months. He knew enough not to sign the first contract Harry offered him, but he'd probably let it go at the second offer. Add one carefully-convinced signature from one of the cleanup guys to claim that he was acting as a responsible adult, and J.D. was fine on his own.

He wrote part of an essay for American History. His father had made it clear he would have preferred J.D. to leave school early and hunt, but a couple of extra years didn't make that much difference. J.D. wasn't sure himself why he'd kept it up. High school was as masochistic an experience as anything else. Every school was the same, identical hierarchies and bullies and ignorant, indifferent puppets. He kind of liked school libraries as long as they didn't have any other people in them (and they were usually underpopulated, so that was one good thing).

 _No, I know why I kept it up_ , he thought. _So that someday, we could scare people into not being assholes._ He and Veronica had a mission, dammit.

Angles. You worked a situation by setting up multiple paths, using the scene and the tools that came to hand. Always something you could pick up, turn over, and send the whole house of cards crashing down. He kept his head down and listened, for the time being.

Arrogant, self-centered gossips talked about how Martha Dunnstock was in a hospital psych ward after attempting suicide. It didn't make any goddamn sense, J.D. thought. Martha's three chief tormentors were dead and you'd think that would have made it better. So, then, who better to ask about the new and fresh hells inflicted on Westerburg High?

—

Martha stared out of the hospital window at a bright sunshiny day, the wind shaking up a bunch of evergreens. Was boredom a better or worse reason to kill yourself than being a complete idiot? She hated herself. God, she'd been so stupid. She told Veronica the worst possible theory of complete nonsense, making herself believe that Kurt Kelly secretly still loved her and a kid at their school was guilty of murder. No wonder they called her fat stupid Martha. She believed that Veronica would never hurt her, and she'd also been so wrong about that. Laughing at her behind her back, forging a note just to hold her up to ridicule. Sure, Veronica had come over to the hospital all apologetic and guilty and chrysanthemum-laden, but as the guilt weakened over time Veronica would soon dump Martha all over again for thinner, more popular friends.

Martha had managed to break her bones pretty badly and was stuck in here until further notice, and until the psychiatrist cleared her. Her parents were horrified at what she'd done and she felt even more guilty that she'd hurt them. They would never trust her again and probably never have a reason to. They didn't know what to say to her and their conversations always ended in awkward silences. Her body was one big ache. She could move one hand without agony, and that was about it.

In Jane Austen's tidy, well-regulated universe, no one ever died for love or lies or suffocating under the weight of their own ugliness. Austen herself - famously cynical, joking that a woman's miscarriage was probably caused by accidentally looking at her husband - would have laughed at Martha's pitiable effort to kill herself. _A large bulky figure has as good a right to be in deep affliction as the most graceful set of limbs in the world_ , Austen would have said, _but nonetheless ridicule will always seize this unbecoming conjunction._

There was a knock at her ward door. She wasn't expecting Veronica again so soon, and her parents should be at work. She opened her mouth in shock as she saw who the black-clad figure was, and she wished she could pull up her blankets and just hide under them forever.

"Greetings and salutations, Miss Dunnstock," he said. "You don't know me; just one of your humble classmates. Jason Dean."

She _did_ know him. That was the whole problem. "What are you doing here?" Martha croaked. This was a horrible punishment - that someone she'd been so unkind to turned out to be one of only two classmates who voluntarily came to visit her. She wanted to disappear.

He watched her neutrally, standing in front of the door. She didn't want to look him the eyes and dropped her gaze down to the floor. That was some lovely pink cross-ways tiling.

"Since my father killed himself a few days ago, I've been a bit lost. Do you have any good advice?" J.D. said.

"I had no idea that sounds really rough," Martha stammered. Was it true? She hadn't heard any news since being here. That was a bombshell and a half. He'd said it relatively calmly, but there was probably a lot more going on underneath.

"Oh, I'm trying to have a positive attitude. I brought a peace offering." J.D. held out a battered, second-hand copy of _Wuthering Heights_.

"That's nice. Thanks," Martha said. The conversation flagged. She was afraid he'd somehow find out what she had claimed about him, felt horribly guilty for her suspicions, and didn't even know what to say to him to help with his own issues.

Then he came out with it. "Why are you scared of me?" he asked directly. He'd pegged her feelings exactly. Martha writhed with shame inside. She couldn't possibly tell him the truth.

"You brought a gun to school once ..." she said.

J.D. looked taken aback, as if he hadn't expected that particular reason. "Well. My formal education did begin in the great state of Texas," he said, doing an exaggerated, mocking accent. He wandered over to the table. "Nice bouquet. Are they carnations?" he asked, as if he were deliberately trying to jump from guns to flowers and land on the least scary subject possible.

"They're chrysanthemums. My friend Veronica brought them," Martha said.

"Oh." J.D. stared at them a little longer. "You two used to be close?" he asked.

"It was more like the three of us," Martha said. "Me and Veronica and Heather Duke. The Three Musketeers, except that none of us wanted to be Porthos." The fat one was always the joke character; she grimaced.

"It's such a bleak world," J.D. said. "They fight the cardinal to save the queen, they turn around and befriend the cardinal, the queen forgets them, and the wheel of history rolls over them and squashes them flat. The only thing that matters is fighting in the moment. It's almost realistic."

"I guess that's why I like the adaptations better," Martha said. "More swashbuckling."

She talked more about the versions that she liked most and about the scenes they'd acted out as children, distracted from her problems. Hopefully he was distracted from his as well, Martha thought. The time flew and by the time the visiting hour was up, J.D. was halfway through teaching her how to play poker.

—

Veronica walked down the street with Heather Chandler by her side, trading gossip about clothes and boys. It was almost like when they were both alive.

"Ugh. Hate her outfit." Heather pointed to a passer-by. "Top half says, I shop out of dumpsters, bottom half says, I muff-dived in college and regretted it ever since. She deserves to die."

Veronica shook her head, mouthing _no_. The ghostly tendrils of Heather's form whirled toward the woman nevertheless, ready to pass through her and drain a fraction of the energy in her blood. At the last moment, Heather seemed to change her mind. Instead, she patted Veronica's cheek and her fingers passed through. Veronica felt the ghostly chill run through her veins, eating away some small portion of her life.

"This is why I like you, best friend," Heather said. "It's the good stuff. Did you have a nice time crying at the bedside of the fat girl you drove to suicide?"

"Martha's going to be fine," Veronica said. She knew better than to believe herself, but she was trying with Martha, trying to do better. Martha was still angry with her, which was a good thing; it meant she still had enough self-esteem left to feel anger.

"Martha Dumptruck's a liability to you. You should encourage her to finish the job. It would be doing her a favor," Heather said. "If she's a _real_ suicide, she won't even create a ghost. It could be your only way to save her from me."

"That's not funny, Heather."

"Whatever." Heather smirked. They walked past a shoe shop Heather had liked in life, the windows glittering with an early display of this winter's fashions. "It's great to get you all to myself, now we've driven the removalists out of town," she said. "Except for the one I've got unfinished business with."

"J.D. and I are through. You can kill him if you want, and it'll only make life safer for me," Veronica said. It was only half the truth, half reverse psychology; she didn't want J.D. dead, but she wanted him to stay out of her life.

The only thing she'd heard from J.D. since they broke up was a thank-you note to her mother, for the condolence casserole. It was brief, polite, and perfectly innocent, except that he'd written it in his father's handwriting.

"I think you're lying. I guess I'll see how much you miss Billy the Kid when you're sitting there all lonely in bed, rubbing yourself off to The Cure," Heather said. "I was hoping for a lovely spot of filicide. Bo Diddley starting something he couldn't finish. I would so have put money on Papa Wolf winning a cage fight with Junior. But then you got in the way. Sorry about the whole dirty old man thing," Heather said insincerely. "Jeez, pop on some Birkenstocks, forget to shave the pits, and talk about how all men stink, right?"

"You can't be all that sorry. I gave you a new recruit," Veronica said.

"I spent a lot of time hanging out inside walls and watching him work," Heather said. "Someday I'll be fighting removalists, so it's best to know your enemy. Those guys were serious. But don't think I can't handle them."

 _There's some time left to play with_ , Veronica thought. _She's still doing a waiting game, she doesn't fully know what a removalist is capable of. And - as long as I can keep her strung along - she's much more interested in punishing me._

Veronica's house was quiet at night, with only the murmur of the television downstairs. She went to bed early again. She felt like she was always tired, lately. She wiped off her protective coating of makeup in front of her mirror, trying to pretend she didn't look any paler than normal below it. Maybe half of her still existed in the sunlit surface world of clothes and school and parties and untroubled adolescence, the half of her that she showed to her parents and teachers. The other half was dragged down to the underworld. She had to deal with death and murder and ghosts. The surface part of her was increasingly fractured and shattered, these days, fragments of a mirror swimming on a chasm of black water. Heather Chandler crashed through a glass coffee table, and what was left of Veronica's life went to hell from there.

She drifted, half-asleep, memories and ideas flickering in her mind.

There had been some good times with the Heathers. In freshman year math, Mr. Blake went on and on about how girls couldn't do geometry because they lacked a spatial sense, and Veronica took him personally and proved him wrong. She got a perfect score on that damn test and waved it in Carl Kellerman's stupid face when he bragged about his ninety. Carl called her an ugly geek in front of the whole class.

"Let's show him that _no one_ in the Heathers is ugly or geeky," Heather Chandler told her, and snapped at Duke to hand over the lip gloss. "He will respect you when we're done."

Catching glances from Carl and most of the other boys that they couldn't help but leave was fine, but it was only the tiniest part of the revenge. Veronica planted a note in Carl's locker, promising him special supplies and a serious cut of the takings, and they paid Heather McNamara's college brother a week's lunch money to meet Carl out the back of the football field in a suspicious-looking fedora and sunglasses. He gave Carl vitamin pills and a baggie full of flour. First Carl was nearly expelled for drug dealing, and second became the laughing stock of the school. He'd also been benched from all sports teams for a good six months.

And after that prank, Veronica had found it much less easy to say no to Heather, even when her targets became people like Grace Bailwick, for crimes like wearing the same skirt as Heather while being fifteen pounds heavier. Or people like Martha Dunnstock, mostly for existing.

Heather liked to boast that her father and mother would buy her anything and believe any excuse she gave (which they did), and Veronica had never heard her talk to them in any more civilized way than yelling or raising her middle finger.

Heather tended to phone up Veronica and boast about her incredible dates with College Man David and how superior he was to hormonal high-school neanderthals like Ram and Kurt, but sometimes you wondered, was that a note of insecurity there? And what kind of mature college man wanted to be with a sixteen-year-old anyway?

But Heather's level of public confidence was flawless and she hated mushy stuff. She didn't accept excuses and didn't tender them either.

A vivid memory of Heather alive floated in Veronica's head, Heather taking the lead at the senior kegger despite being only a sophomore at the time, cheeks flushed red with alcohol and excitement, yelling at Veronica not to be such a pillowcase, drawing her into a game of spin-the-bottle that turned out to be fun.

 _Am I the demonic avenger you want to believe?_ Heather asked her in her sleep, childish and wistful and wide-eyed. _Or just a murdered sixteen-year-old girl, revolting against the injustice of my early death?_

Veronica woke up alone in the bleary dawn, cold with sweat and tangled in her sheets, after a very uneasy sleep.

—

 _Note:_ "A large bulky figure ..." - Martha's quoting/paraphrasing Jane Austen's _Persuasion_.

—


	10. David, King of the Road

Part of J.D. worked above-board, everything almost like a normal life. The basement door to his father's explosives stayed closed. He visited Martha Dunnstock in hospital and played poker with Monopoly money with her, mostly talking about movies and books. He started a scrapbook of passive-aggressive notes from the neighbors for excessive sax playing to the radio at one in the morning. He handed in homework. He found a part-time job at the Snappy Snack Shack, pulling the late shifts no one else wanted. He would have liked to think his encyclopedic knowledge of product got him the job, but it was more likely his ability to stand upright while breathing.

The other half of him had different plans entirely.

J.D. sidled into the science lab, slipping the large envelope out of his coat. Heather Duke glared at him as if she wished that looks could kill, greedily snatching for the first photo in the pack.

The photograph had _To Athos from Milady with love XXX_ written on the corner, in flawlessly neat handwriting. The 'i' was dotted with a heart. Young Martha Dunnstock wore a bicorn and a men's shirt and looked straight at the camera, while Heather Duke, dressed up in a ruffled skirt and petticoat, kissed her on the cheek.

"Me and Martha Dumptruck. Where did you get this?" Heather said. "I'll give you a week's lunch money."

Heather Duke was a poisonous green candy in a wrapper of constant knee-crossing. Ever since Chandler died, she had ambitions of taking over. He needed a co-conspirator. It would have been better if Veronica were with him, she'd understand. But he would play Mephistopheles to Heather Duke's Faust and entice her to greater heights - and lower depths. There would always be Heathers in this hell.

"I don't want your money. Strength is what this school needs," J.D. said. He grabbed the photo back from her. "The time for mushy togetherness is over. The white whale drank some bad plankton and splashed through a coffee table. Moby-Dick got dunked. Heather Chandler's gone, and you're the one who deserves to take the helm."

Heather smiled slightly. "I think she couldn't handle the pressure."

"I think you can. I want a favor." J.D. brought out his sheets of computer paper, with the subject line taped to the top of the page. "The Heathers did polls. This is a petition to get the Big Fun band to play at prom. You know, Teenage Suicide Don't Do It." Their biggest hit. Terrible music, but too ironically appropriate for him to ignore. "Big Fun will choose the school with the most signatures to play at. Get everyone's John Hancock on this and it could be Westerburg."

He could practically see the wheels turning over in Duke's mind, calculating and comparing. She wanted to defeat Heather's memory and outdo her, and the lure of an idea even slightly different caught on like oxygen in her compressed, conformist soul. "Interesting. When do I get the photos back?"

"When everyone signs, we'll burn the pictures and the negatives," J.D. promised. "In the meantime: strength. I brought you a present."

The red scrunchie ran as smoothly across his hands as a bloodstain. It was the same ornament Heather Chandler used to wear like a crown. "From a Heather to a Heather," J.D. said.

She forgot to ask where he picked it up.

—

 _I can't do my plan yet_ , Veronica thought, _not while Martha's still like this._ So she sat and watched crappy TV with her erstwhile friend in the hospital bed, hoping that some fragments of what they once had were still there. On the program, Bill Sykes and Oliver Twist were running from the law. The murderer was fleeing up to the roof with a noose wrapped around his body. She looked away, cringing.

"You want it off?" Martha asked, and she nodded. "Maybe that's enough of a guilty silence," Martha said.

"I've told you and I will keep telling you until you believe it. I am so sorry for what I did," Veronica said. "I should never have written that note for Heather. I shouldn't have said the things I said - "

"I don't want to talk about what you did," Martha cut her off. "Why do you want to go backwards, Veronica?"

"We were innocent and heartless. We didn't know what was coming," Veronica said. "We fought imaginary enemies in the treehouse and we always won."

"Maybe no one's an enemy," Martha said. "I've been thinking a lot, I haven't been able to do anything _but_ think. When I go back, nothing will change. No one will be different. I don't understand why I ... I'm still here, I guess. Mostly planning to stay that way." Even with the heavy casts on her, Martha sat as if she was trying to take up the least space in the world she possibly could, curled up over herself. She held her sprained wrist close to her chest.

"Take things slow," Veronica said. It was a lovely piece of advice that was so generic that everyone could say it was right and no one could follow it.

"It's all right. You weren't the only person who did something wrong," Martha said with a sigh. "I'm sorry I said those crazy things about that J.D. kid. Don't tell him, okay? He's come to see me a few times now."

"What?" Veronica knew she was overreacting, going over the top like a bottle rocket at a bowling club lunch. She couldn't control herself. "Why? Shit. What did he say to you, Martha?"

Martha stared at her. "I hate to ask, but is there something going on between you two? He seemed really interested in the story where Heather Duke pushed you out of the treehouse."

"We dated for about five seconds," Veronica spat out. She had to stand up, clutch the back of her chair. The treehouse thing was just a silly kids' game, surely even J.D. would not - use it as an excuse. "A _very disappointing_ five seconds," she improvised. She couldn't tell Martha exactly what she was disappointed about. But the possible innuendo seemed to fly above Martha's head anyway. "It was super awkward. What else did he say to you?"

"That's not a weird question at all." Martha seemed to enjoy the rare opportunity to be sarcastic to Veronica. "He mostly talked books, I guess. We played card games. And he said he got a job at the Snappy Snack Shack."

"Well, how nice for him," Veronica said. "Gosh, I hope he doesn't get too many rude customers." _Because they might end up dead._ "Seriously, Martha, I'm not the bitter ex, I dumped him, but believe me J.D. is not a nice person."

Maybe Martha thought Veronica was being way too harsh. Pity the poor kid who got not-so-falsely accused, who sadly became an orphan as a result of his own murderous activities!

"Hey, I've always been a Frederick Wentworth type of girl. You're the one who thought Heathcliff was so complex and interesting and deep," Martha said.

 _Cathy should've taken Heathcliff out behind the woodshed and shot him_ , Veronica thought. "I don't think my thoughts on Wuthering Heights are the point of this conversation," she said.

"How about this point? I might be the one in hospital, but you're not looking so well either," Martha said. "You seem kind of pale, and you're obviously pretty angry and unhappy about stuff. You want to talk about your feelings like a mature, sensible person?"

"Hell, no. Let's watch some terrible kids' cartoons and never speak of this again," Veronica said. "I brought lemonade and my mom's cookies."

Veronica actually felt better after being with Martha. But she knew it wouldn't last long.

A bright-colored shadow trailed in Veronica's wake, on her way out of the hospital. She'd let Heather in, and she would have the strength to end this. Her footsteps slowed and she shuffled as if she were too tired to walk properly. Let Heather think she was broken, for just long enough.

"What, did you forget to add the drain cleaner into her lemonade?" Heather asked.

—

David Harper turned into the Snappy Snack Shack with his wheels squealing, and parked his mean machine in the handicapped spot. He'd only be like five minutes; where was the harm?

He whistled to himself, smelling the weed and alcohol on his own breath with every exhale. Fun party. Sure, the majority of the girls there were not _very_ and the ones that were picked other guys, but it still wasn't half bad. David was a sophomore at Remington University, and the parties and the networking and the contacts you made were much more important than whatever bullshit grade you got for your philosophy midterms.

The topic was _thanatos_ , the death instinct, and David had totally deserved a better grade considering his dead girlfriend. Poor Heather Chandler, cute and gullible, could suck like an Electrolux hose, had a rich daddy, kind of bitchy except when he could shut her up. Girls like that were way more fun than the shrill Gloria Steinem wannabees he saw in his classes. After the funeral, he'd tried it on with one of Heather's friends - a bit tacky, 'offering to comfort her in her grief' was a better way of putting it - but he'd been rebuffed, by a little flat-chested kid with Moby-Dick under her arm. Better luck next time, David. He sang a Big Fun song to himself as the bell rang over the door.

Place was deserted at this post-midnight hour. There was only the clerk, a pale guy wearing all black. Probably a teenager, whether high schooler or Remington freshman or dropout, David didn't know or care. He lurched against the merchandise and knocked a bunch of packets to the ground. He recognized the bright red of BQ corn nuts - Heather's favourite. He had the munchies and would totally get a packet, sort of in her honor.

"Good choices." The clerk had moved pretty quietly and quickly next to David, helping him pick up what he'd dropped. Somehow, the packets were ending up in David's arms rather than back on the rack. "BQ flavor marks a true connoisseur. Did you know ninety-nine out of a hundred doctors agree, the sugar walnut slice is bad for you? That's why the taste is so good," the clerk said. "But you're definitely missing something, my friend - the nut texture can be a little dry, so you'll need a Super Sipper to go with that." David found himself over by the drinks machine, blinking owlishly at the huge cup. Hey, maybe a sugar rush wasn't such a bad idea. The clerk continued. "You're a Remington University man, am I right or did you beat in a guy's head with a tire iron and steal his clothes?"

David was wearing his frat jacket and he was pretty drunk, so he laughed.

"Nice car, classic ride," the clerk said. "Have you heard about our amazing line in auto products? You got a scratch there on the right, but it'll buff right out with Stanley Mayo's Paint Restorer followed by Via Appia Turtle Wax. Oh, yeah, apply with X-Treme Wipe cloths - proudly using the same elastic technique as astronauts for some reason nobody is entirely certain about." He quickly took the products off the shelf, piling them into David's arms while he was trying to manage the Super Sipper.

"Seriously, dude? I just wanted to party," David said. He was holding too many things, but felt sort of bad about just dropping them on the ground, like it would be rude. The clerk helped him to the counter.

"You don't have to carry all this stuff," the clerk said helpfully, "we do carry free plastic bags."

"I don't want any of the car cleaning shit," David said.

The clerk looked kind of disappointed and put the turtle wax to one side. "That's okay," he said, like he was trying to make David feel better about it. "I can get you something really special. This is your final chance to sample the very last of today's donuts." David looked at the cardboard box and the coloured icing. Chocolate, banana with sprinkles, even one of the rare caramel type. His stomach rumbled a little bit. "They're the _good stuff_ ," the clerk hissed, in a hushed and almost reverent tone.

 _Okay, fine, Mr. Weirdly-Intense-Convenience-Store-Clerk, whatever_ , David decided. He fumbled in his wallet. The clerk was ringing up a lot of stuff, and the last time he got cash out was - yeah, he had it covered.

"Almost perfecto. That leaves a dollar ninety-three in change for you. Most people put it straight in the Humane Society tin over here. Who doesn't like animals better than people?" the clerk quipped. "Although you clearly don't have much to give, every little bit counts."

David felt kind of embarrassed that he had so little change on him. Then he shook his head because that was silly, and just went with dropping the money in the jar. His wallet was super light as he fumbled it back into his jeans pocket.

 _I planned to spend like five bucks. How did I empty my wallet?_ David wondered to himself. He maneuvered himself to the door with two heavy plastic bags in one hand and the Super Sippy in the other. The bell rang again over his head as he stumbled out.

He thought he heard that clerk mutter to himself, behind him. Something like, "I actually love this job."

David rolled down his window and let the night wind blow in. He was David, King of the Road, smoothly rolling over the bumps and hollows of life, alone on the highway with a whole bunch of donuts all for himself. He licked off some of the flakes of caramel icing on his fingers. Then he shivered, very cold and very tired all of a sudden. He shrugged into his jacket to get it wrapped more closely around him. He was just about at the bridge. The streetlights repeated into infinity in front of him, all exactly the same as each other. He had to make the turn. He pulled on the wheel, but it didn't respond to him, as if some chilly force he couldn't see crept up by his side and held his hands back.

The car tipped and went over the bridge. David was half aware of flying in the air, and then everything disappeared. When he next came back to consciousness, he could hear water flowing somewhere near his head. He couldn't feel his legs, and he had a vague idea he was upside down.

His car had crashed, and he was probably dying, he thought. He had some good memories. Mom and Dad and his little brother at Thanksgiving chowing down on pumpkin pie, hitting the winning goal in the final basketball playoffs, shooting back beers with his buddies down at the creek, partying hard with hot girls like Heather. Life flashes back through your eyes. It was almost philosophical.

In his _thanatos_ paper, he'd spun off some lines about the instinct, the death-acceptance theory, that those who didn't fight it were not doomed to become ghosts. Other dead philosopher guys basically said it was all about the survival of the fittest and you had to fight, man. But David wasn't really that kind. His life was all about the pursuit of pleasure, and in the end he didn't want anything badly enough to struggle for it.

So David Harper lay there in his broken car, apathetic, not in any pain or anything, a kind of pleasant drunken haze still filling his mind. Yeah, it wasn't a bad life, despite its brevity. He could almost imagine his mom there beside him, stroking his hair like she did when he was sick.

The cold he felt numbed him. He thought he heard something faint in the chilled air around him, something that sounded like Heather's voice. He could almost picture her above him, his red-gold angel coming to show him into an afterlife of frat celebrations and BQ corn nuts and beer that never ran dry.

" _I guess you're not coming to my party, David_ ," he thought he heard Heather say, while he drifted peacefully away. " _Oh well. I'm inviting a whole bunch of other people. It'll be so very._ "

David's last breath slipped into the wind.

—

"Thanks for coming over. I really needed another pair of hands," Martha said. The cast on her wrist wasn't coming off for at least another month, and she was doomed to ride in a conspicuous motor scooter in order to get anywhere.

"Why aren't you milking it as long as you can? Why go back to school at all?" J.D. said. The sour smell of cigarette smoke clung to him as he walked into Martha's living room, behind her scooter.

She felt sorry for him, and still felt a little bit guilty over her past assumptions. J.D. was so cynical and negative all the time; like Mr. Bennet from Pride and Prejudice, hiding in his library and mocking the world instead of actually trying to do something right. Or like Holden Caulfield ... No. It would be too cruel to compare _anyone_ to Holden Caulfield.

"Because my parents would kill me," Martha said. "Uh, sorry, terrible metaphor."

"None taken," J.D. replied.

"Here it is. My extra credit for Mrs. Pope. I've missed a lot and I'd like to keep that solid B-average up," Martha said. J.D. was in the class as well, and, like Martha, had actually read the book. "It doesn't look like much right now, but I'd almost finished it before ... well, you know."

Making dioramas was her hobby. The _Pequod_ from Moby-Dick had been Martha's most ambitious project yet, not just a model but also due to go in a bottle. She'd built it from a generic mail-order kit, but added custom decorations to the ship. Papier-mache whalebones, painted white with a luminous blue glow, turned the ship's bulwarks, bow, and stern into a ghoulish display. Captain Peleg, like a cannibal, decked out his vessel with the bones of the whales he'd hunted and slain. The masts and sails were all down, of course, with threads attached to pull them into position later.

J.D. had dropped down to one knee to study it intently. "This is cool," he finally said when he looked up. "What do you need?"

"I need the tiller fitted, then it goes in the bottle," Martha said. "There are printed instructions. The tiller's going to be tricky, but I think I made it right. It might need some shaving off at the base." Like in the book, the tiller was meant to be a whale's toothy jawbone carved in one piece.

J.D. took his time, reading through the instructions and studying the tiller from each angle. Martha was glad he actually took it seriously, instead of mocking or suggesting she light it on fire for a better effect. His fingers, passing over it, were much darker than his face, and then she realized they were covered in old scars.

"What happened to your hands?" Martha blurted out. Maybe that wasn't the most tactful of questions, she thought, a moment later, and flushed.

"It's only superficial. My manual dexterity's fine," he said. He seemed calm enough. "For playing the sax," he added.

"Is it a removalist thing?" Martha asked. She had a vague memory of a detective story, Holmes or something, where a removalist was murdered, the prime suspect had similarly damaged hands, and he turned out to be the victim's partner in disguise. Still, in modern days, you didn't expect to see stuff like that.

"I'm not one, any more," J.D. said. He looked like he was smiling, though his head was still bent over the tiller and it was hard to tell. "Lost my apprentice license after, ah, recent events. No license means no paying jobs. The feds have my name on a list somewhere, but they don't conscript people unless a major disaster happens."

He didn't sound like he missed his job much. Martha wouldn't have minded being born with some special trait, something that told you what to do with your life other than read books and be a laughingstock. Were people like Veronica and Heather Chandler marked out at birth for some sort of grand destiny, effortlessly moving into leadership and fame?

The tiller clicked into place. "What next?" J.D. said.

She talked him through getting the folded-up ship into the neck of the bottle, then how to pull the threads to watch it unfurl on the inside. The _Pequod's_ flags proudly flew from inside the glass. Martha awkwardly added the cork to the bottle with her left hand, the last finishing touch.

He seemed kind of interested in the stuff she built, so Martha showed off her Mansfield Park model and her Lady Audley's Secret scene. Dressed in crimson velvet with golden ringlets in her hair, the wicked Lady held court in her richly furnished boudoir, made out of an old dolls'-house.

J.D. picked up Lady Audley's figure to look at it closely. At the time, Martha had put a lot of work into the fine details of the figure, painting the doll's features under a magnifying glass. "Blonde hair, penchant for wearing red, a particularly evil glint in her lovely blue eyes?" he said. "Who is this, and do I detect an uncanny resemblance or do I detect an uncanny resemblance?"

Martha sighed. At the time, it had felt cathartic to paint the doll after a real-life model. Now - things were different. "She's Lady Audley," she explained. "You'd probably like the book, it's got a lot of attempted murder in it." J.D. seemed to have a decided preference for dark and grim. "She's a beautiful woman who married a baronet for money and a title, except her first husband was still alive at the time. So when he comes back from Australia, she tries to kill him and then she tries to kill all the witnesses to her secret."

Martha had used a yearbook photo of Heather Chandler as a reference for Lady Audley's face. It felt like making her own personal voodoo doll. Of course, she hadn't literally stuck any pins through it, and what happened later was just a coincidence.

"And, at any point, does Lady Audley take a plunge through a coffee table?" J.D. lifted the figure up in a dramatic arc and swept her back to the diorama like a plane coming into landing, placing her face down on a mahogany dressing table.

"That's not funny. In the end, she fakes being insane so she doesn't have to go to jail, and ends up in an asylum in Belgium for the rest of her life," Martha said.

"Happy ending." J.D. put the figure back in its original place. Martha's dog, Harrison, was snooping around the stranger. He bent down and scratched him behind the ears. "Is he yours?"

"Yeah. He's almost six." Her parents bought Harrison when they started to realize how isolated Martha was becoming at school. He was a big dog but a coward at heart, timid and careful, and tried to befriend the local cats instead of chasing them. "You have any pets?"

"A hamster," J.D. said.

"I'd have guessed a tarantula or something," Martha said. It kind of slipped out. It just felt unexpected from the dark scary trenchcoat kid, who was still kneeling on the floor petting her dog with both hands. "Sorry - " She started to apologize for the joke, but he laughed a short, dusty laugh.

She ended up asking him to stay for dinner. He didn't say a whole lot, but went for her mom's buttermilk pie like there was no tomorrow. He had a typical teenage boy's appetite, at least. _He's not a nice person_ , Veronica said; J.D. was certainly offputting, but Martha liked to think that no one was all bad. Maybe you could survive in this world if you had even one friend willing to reach out.

—

 _Note:_ It's difficult to compare Heathers characters to Jane Austen characters, because Austen didn't write about serial killers.

—


	11. Rising Duke, Falling Depths

People looked like colorful dolls in the fall sunlight, like mannequins being pulled by threads into position. As if they knew they had to act out the role destined for them, stoners lighting up in the parking lot and geeks buried in pocket calculators and jocks playing the bully, even if inside they desired and felt something completely different. Veronica's head ached. She walked slowly down the stairs, dragging her feet.

"Veronica, I know you're not looking well. I forgive you for that little episode of Parkinson's disease at your house, and I won't even ask you to do anything strenuous." Heather Duke stepped out of sunbathing in the light of the big window. "All I need is one signature. You like Big Fun, don't you?"

Veronica only regretted slapping her because of how it affected her now.

"Dennis Edelmann thought he was signing to help Ugandan refugees. Grace Bailwick thought she was signing for a sauna in the cafeteria. Tracy thought she was signing to make pot legal. They all like you, Heather, but I know you," Veronica said.

She'd seen Heather changing outfits like a chameleon would its skin, dancing through all the social groups in the school, pushing in and putting down. The trails of a red scrunchie like Heather Chandler's glinted in her hair.

Duke was the omega Heather once. She was the lowest and least in the clique, bulimic and vulnerable, the butt of Heather Chandler's constant refrain of 'Shut up Heather'. She'd risen. Spread rumors about Veronica, stole Heather's plaid tartan earrings, and moved to dominate as if Heather Chandler had never existed. She'd even started to play the fake note game on one of the geeks and Jennifer Forbes. Nothing ever changed.

"I'm doing them a favor. They might think Big Fun are a bunch of tuneless Eurofags, but Westerburg will be on the map when they come to play at our prom. Why are you fighting me on this?" Heather said. "Even Martha Dumptruck signed."

"Because she's still scared of you," Veronica said. "You helped Heather break her. And I did nothing at the time."

"And you want to go back to playing dolls with Dumptruck? I thought you had more taste," Heather said. "Just sign, and I'll stop riding your traces."

"Don't talk to me like that. Don't talk to _anyone_ like that. You think it makes you powerful to make other people feel like shit?" Veronica said.

Heather actually seemed surprised that someone was trying to resist her. "It was J.D.'s idea, okay? He made out the signature sheets and everything." She thrust the sheets toward her. Veronica froze. "Go ahead."

"No," Veronica spat.

 _He's playing you, I know he's trying something -_ she thought.

Heather Duke smiled instead of got angry, as if she thought she'd hit something, laid a finger on a bruised streak of soft vulnerability. "Jealous much?" she gloated.

Veronica raised her hand to slap her again. This time, Duke grabbed her before she could hit. She lowered Veronica's hand back to her side.

"I joined the Heathers because I wanted to have friends and survive school," Veronica said. "Why did you have to be such a mega-bitch?"

"Why not?' Heather Duke said, and the sound of her laughter as she walked away echoed like the silver of Heather Chandler's.

J.D. came down the stairs while Veronica still stood there, black trenchcoat flapping around his legs, a book bag slung over his back. She didn't turn and walk away from him. He went to Veronica as if he couldn't help but come. He spoke softly, brushed her hair back from her ear and embraced her from the side, drawing her in as he said what was only meant for her to hear.

"I missed you, Veronica. You understand. I knew you'd come back, I was positive," he whispered. "You need me and I need you. I was so sure."

It would be so easy to take him home with her and fall into bed. He was warm, his breath was soft on her hair and on her cheek as he whispered to her, and his arms were gently wrapped around her waist. She could be comfortable and protected, safe in the aegis of J.D.'s body heat, and just go to sleep for hours with no fear of ghosts in the night. She missed sleeping together, not just the sex, waking up warm with her body pressed into his back. She'd been so tired lately and it would be so simple, so comfortable, to rest with a hunter. Laugh about Heather Duke and make morbid jokes and drink wine coolers.

He gently kissed the side of her face. She didn't yield, didn't turn her head, but part of her wanted to.

 _I know what you are and I know what you made me do_ , Veronica thought, and the cold precision of what she needed tipped within her like a knife coated with frost.

"You're planning something. What is it?" she said.

"Come with me and find out. Want to go out tonight? We could catch a movie, play some miniature golf." He kissed her again, carefully trailing from her ear to her cheek, his touch warm and supple and awakening a fire within her as well.

"I was thinking more along the lines of slitting Heather Duke's wrists and making it look like suicide."

Something in her still liked it when she made him laugh like that, gravelly and unexpected. "Now you're talking! I could be up for that. Her favorite Moby-Dick has plenty of 'Oh what a cruel world let's top ourselves' key quotes."

And the cold ice solidified inside her. "Your line there was, 'No, Veronica, I've seen the error of my ways and I'm out of the homicide business for good'."

She stamped on his foot, hard, and he let go of her.

"It's over. Grow up!" she yelled. She dashed to the stairs. J.D. didn't try to follow her, but his usual ironic detachment was utterly gone from his face, replaced with a clear anger and hurt in his eyes.

"But I was right! You were wrong and I was right! Strength, dammit, strength!" he cried. Veronica didn't look back.

J.D. waited for Veronica to change her mind. She could realize he was right, flounce back, talk to him, dammit - no. She wasn't coming. He'd seen her at a distance at school, watched her and longed for her. He sometimes smelt her perfume in the halls, making him remember her vividly. Those Heathers and hangers-on still spread rumors about her. She and Martha had patched things up - a good move, Martha deserved none of the bullying she'd been given - and Veronica herself looked exhausted and frail. He'd seen Heather and Veronica and Martha interact in the cafeteria, briefly; Martha had lowered her head and looked like she couldn't bring herself to speak at all.

He could work a little swap, trade some of his leverage with Heather Duke for a temporary band-aid. Temporary was all that was needed, under the circumstances. Heather only thought she set the ground rules of her relationship with him, such as it was. A Heather was never to be seen talking to a loser in public but she would most certainly get the jocks to leave him alone, as if that mattered to J.D. She pictured him like a dog begging for the scraps from her table. He knew the direction they were really heading toward.

Heather carelessly left her copy of Moby-Dick on the side of her lab table in Biology, so J.D. pocketed it as he went around to get a test tube. She stayed behind to search.

"You dropped this," J.D. said. He put the book on the table. "Some of your recent behavior is unworthy of you."

"What an interesting tactic, and by 'interesting' I mean 'hackneyed and obsolescent'. Criticism edged with just enough implied flattery to keep one in the conversation. What's wrong?" Heather didn't reach out to take back the book.

"The quality of a woman is measured by her enemies," J.D. said, and made it big and pretentious. "You already pushed Miss Dunnstock into the pond once. Move onward, move forward, move ever upward in the social stream. Dream bigger and dream better. Let Excelsior be your motto. You understand my general drift?"

"Why are you defending Martha Dumptruck?" Heather Duke turned the proposition over in her narrow and prim and proper mind, coming out with the inevitable malice. "I know you're still hanging out with her, and it can't all be for blackmail. There's only one other thing Martha could possibly be giving you." J.D. had to hand it to her; he'd never seen someone deliver innuendos in such a starched, buttoned-up way while still making it clear what she meant.

Pass it off lightly, and she'd take it in the same spirit. "What red-blooded American teenager doesn't have a sexual fetish for broken bones and surgical casts?" he drawled.

Outright crudity still had some ability to embarrass Heather. "Eww. I don't really care what your sick and twisted game is," she said. "I guess you'd say that Veronica's a loser too now, isn't she? Moping around all the time. She tried to slap me again. That kind of shit means you've lost any control you ever once had.

"Did you know that in the seventies, Jason was one of the top five boys' names in the United States over and over again? In all those schools you went to, did you get sick of being one out of many? Sometimes I lay awake all night and wondered, what would it be like to be the only one," Heather said, and a sort of veil of twisted delight slipped over her eyes. "Interesting pep talk, coach." She picked up Moby-Dick, but rather than slip it back in her handbag, she handed it back to J.D. "A little gift for you. I don't need it any more."

J.D. watched her leave, walking jauntily out in her little red tartan suit topped with Chandler's red scrunchie. It was perfecto. Heather versus Heather, and the whole school wins. Veronica would certainly approve. He flipped through Moby-Dick, considering meaningful passages that were worth an underline or three.

—

 _Poor Little Heather_ , someone had written on the blackboard. It was quite a good cursive font, but Veronica wasn't certain whether it was Heather Duke's or not. It didn't have to be hers for her to be responsible.

Heather McNamara used to be her friend, Veronica supposed. The beta Heather, tall and blonde and athletic, trusted to always follow when asked, the second girl in the line to bring out a jeer or putdown against the victim Heather Chandler wanted to take out. She wanted to be cheer captain this year, but didn't get there after missing too much practice.

She made the tragic mistake of calling into the 'Hot Probs' radio show and talking about her sad feelings. Veronica and Martha had listened to the program together in Martha's room; Martha wasn't really paying attention, poring through a new modelling book and adding sticky notes to projects she wanted to build when her sprain was better. Veronica found it obvious who was talking as soon as Heather McNamara started with, 'My name is Heather. No, it's Madonna. No, Tweety. No, wait.' Heather knew all her friends listened to the show. She should have been smarter, more careful, kept her head down. _You stupid bitch_ , Veronica had thought at the time; _you poor, pitiable, stupid bitch._

It was just possible, Veronica thought, that she still wasn't over the way McNamara left her in the graveyard and told the school she willingly screwed Kurt and Ram.

Duke had been the most enthusiastic participant to spread the program's contents around the school, ignoring Martha and Veronica in pursuit of a new target. Poor, whiny little Heather, all sad that her parents were divorced and she was failing math. Her ex-boyfriend killed himself because he was gay. Dumb, insecure, slutty blonde.

Heather Duke whispered something to Rod Swirsky in the front row that had him explode in laughter. She slipped him a note, which he moved on to Grace Bailwick. _Great trick, Heather - how original_ , Veronica thought. She closed her eyes for a moment, tired and through with it.

Heather McNamara came into class last of all, and a shudder of laughter from almost everyone greeted her. She saw what was on the blackboard. She made as if to put her books down on her desk anyway, but then she lost courage and ran out.

"Where's Heather gone?" Grace asked.

"Heather's gone to _cry_ ," Heather Duke announced, and there was more laughter as if that comment made her the second coming of Oscar Wilde. The teacher called for silence, ineffectively.

Veronica stood up. "Sick," she said.

She pushed open the door of the girls' bathroom in the sports wing, but she was not prepared for what she saw there.

Heather McNamara was on the floor by the taps, pressed into the wall as if she wanted to hide herself by sinking inside it, tears running down on her face through black lines of mascara. A closed pill bottle lay discarded by her side. And next to Heather, Veronica saw a reflection of her own self, dressed like she'd been for that Remington frat party, gorgeous and head-turning. The vision of Veronica floated in the air and looked down at McNamara with a merciless expression. Beside her was Heather Duke, back in one of her green outfits, laughing and taunting. And leading them was Heather Chandler, glorious in red, at the height of power and control.

"Your ass is off the cheerleading team," Heather Duke said.

"Did you think you ever had a brain, Heather?" the vision of Veronica said. "Did you do the buy-one-get-one-free lobotomy special?"

"You were my only real friend, Heather," Heather Chandler said. "I need you to follow me. _Do it now_!"

And suddenly there was a yellow-handled razor in Heather McNamara's hand. Veronica saw a tendril of Heather Chandler's form leading to McNamara's head, feeding her the sights she wanted her to see. The power of an Ariel, sending dangerous and destructive visions to people. Heather wanted another death, and needed it to be bloody. Heather McNamara stabbed down at her wrist with the razorblade.

Veronica rushed through the ghost and grabbed Heather's hand, ignoring the cold. She wrenched the razor away from Heather and threw it away, then forced Heather into a cubicle and locked the door. That wasn't enough to keep any ghost out, but it was enough to get Heather's attention. She slapped Heather across the face, and Heather's eyes fixed on her instead.

" _Later, best friend ..._ " she heard from Heather Chandler, and hoped that meant the ghost would disappear for now.

"Heather, it's me, Veronica. Heather, look at me. Don't look at anything else."

"Veronica? You told me to kill myself ..." Heather said.

"No, of course I didn't. That wasn't real, what you saw wasn't real. Just look at me." Veronica held her tightly, digging her fingers into Heather's shoulders, and hoped that physical solidarity was enough to make Heather separate what was real from what was a lie.

"I saw Heather," McNamara said. "She wants us to join her. I saw two of you, Veronica. One of you looked like a supermodel you. I saw Heather and Heather. Am I going crazy? Should I die because I'm going crazy?"

"How many people can fit inside this cubicle?" Veronica snapped.

"Uh, two?"

"There you go. It's just us here. You can't see anything else," Veronica said, and hoped that Heather believed her. "There are lots of reasons why people see things that aren't there. Have you eaten anything today?"

Heather looked at her, and her eyes finally started to focus on what was real. "The pep rally's coming," she said, "I can't afford to put on any weight, Veronica. They'll kick me off the team if I'm fat."

"Your life is more important than some dumb pep rally." Veronica pulled down the toilet seat and sat with Heather. "We're going to the nurse and she will give you chocolate. I won't let you be a statistic in US-fucking-A Today." The school nurse gave anyone hot chocolate who asked for it; it was a basic remedy in case of any stray ghosts in the area.

"Heather and Kurt and Ram did it," Heather said. "Am I weak if I don't do it? Am I wrong?"

"If Heather and Kurt and Ram - " _went out and hanged themselves_ , Veronica almost said, and thought much better of it - "... wore rainbow tie-dye leggings to school, would you do it?"

"Probably." Heather sniffled.

"You'll get through this, Heather. Promise," Veronica said. "If you were happy every day of your life, you wouldn't be human, you'd be a game show host."

Heather started to sob, clutching Veronica and dampening her shoulder with her tears. When she quieted down a little and cleaned her face by wiping it on Veronica's shirt, she looked up.

"Can we go get that chocolate now?" Heather said. They walked out of the cubicle together. "I wanted to tell you before, Veronica, I'm really sorry about that time with Kurt and Ram. Now I know they were gay, I don't feel as bad about it and stuff, but I'm still sorry ..."

"Your overdue apology is considered," Veronica said.

"Let's go shoe shopping or something," Heather said. Veronica kept her arm around Heather's waist, feeling strangely fulfilled. _One life saved, out of all that I've done_ , she thought. _It's a good start. Or a good ending._

—

The world was crazy. Party harder, Carl Kellerman thought. He was hockey team captain and he currently couldn't be riding higher in Westerburg, in spite of everything that had happened. Heather Chandler killed herself because she was too popular. Kurt and Ram killed themselves because they were fags. Ugh, he'd never have seen that coming. Made him sick to his stomach to think he'd been in the same locker room as them on various occasions. Now he and his friend Rod Swirsky were real men, the two big men on campus, almost scoring with one Heather each. Heather Duke was a real pricktease and probably the only virgin in the Heathers, but Carl was sure she'd put out for him someday.

Carl didn't see himself as a dumb jock. He was pretty good at math, understood what most of his teachers were talking about most of the time, and while schoolwork was never fun it was something you had to do if you wanted to get anywhere in life. However, lately, everything had been so busy and stuff, and he'd gone to five big parties in the past two weeks and stayed up drinking until early in the morning. Yeah, he'd need to cut back if he wanted Westerburg to win the hockey finals. Maybe after he'd gotten into Duke's panties.

His buddy Rod wasn't particularly dumb either, but this English class wasn't his best suit in the pack. Mrs. Pope had separated Carl and Rod from sitting together, total bullshit but she was one of the teachers who liked to think they were hardasses. She stuck Carl on the right, Rod on the left, and fat Martha Dumptruck in the middle of them. Looking at girls like that was enough to turn your stomach. It was oppression against men, like meninism or whatever.

And, crap, there was a pop quiz today. Carl cordially hated Moby-Dick with all his heart. He skimmed a Cliff's Notes version once at the beginning of semester and vowed he was never going to read the whole thing. Rod was completely with him on that one. Pope dealt out the quiz papers, a dense row of twenty-five questions that barely fit on the page, and announced it would be a big part of the grade. Fuck. Coach would get crucial on him and Rod after they failed this.

But what else did God invent fat girls for, if they weren't at least a little bit nerdy? Martha Dumptruck had already started to scribble away. She'd actually read the book, considering she didn't have time to do anything other than be fat and try to off herself.

So the solution here was pretty obvious. Carl and Rod looked at each other behind Martha's back, nodding and grinning at the plan that passed through both their heads. At her own desk, the Pope pulled out a thick book of her own and started to read at her leisure while her students worked.

Carl filled out the parts he could remember from his Cliff's Notes, then stole glances at Martha's work. She was writing slowly with her left hand and her handwriting was pretty awful. Fuck you, Martha, couldn't you have at least sprained your non-writing hand in the bullshit suicide attempt? Carl made out the gist of her answer, and started putting it in his own words. Martha would never dare to tell even if she noticed. He and Rod would both team up against her, and her life would get even worse the moment she ticked off the popular crowd. Law of the jungle, man, Carl thought, and wished he could work that philosophy into one of the questions.

Rod was having a harder time on his side, with Martha's fat arm getting in the way of her work. That made his cheating a bit more obvious as he leaned over. He finally got what he wanted, and started to scribble as well. By the time the bell rang, Carl thought he'd got his work together all right, done well enough to survive another day without Coach getting too upset with them. Rod looked pretty relieved too.

Mrs. Pope got up to collect the tests, starting with Carl's row. When she reached for Martha's test, Martha held onto it. "Could I have time to redo the test over lunch, Mrs. Pope?" she said clearly. "I got a lot of answers wrong."

Mrs. Pope gave her a cold smile. "We'll see how you do first. There's no need for immediate pessimism."

"Only I wasn't the only one who got the answers wrong," Martha said, still holding on to her test. Carl felt as if his eyes were about to pop out of his head in absolute disbelief. "If you look at Carl's and Rod's papers, I think you'll find they got exactly the same wrong answers as me," she said.

Shit, Coach was going to kill them for attempted cheating. Mrs. Pope sentenced the three of them to retake the pop quiz over lunch, separated from each other. No way he and Rod were going to pass. Carl was royally pissed off that he'd been played like a dumbass by a stupid fat girl, pissed that some stupid fucking Moby-Dick test cut into time he should be spending playing hockey, and above all pissed that one stupid moment might be enough to ruin everything for him. He'd tried so hard to keep his nose clean since that stupid drug thing in eighth grade.

So the answer of what to do was pretty obvious. He and Rod were teenagers, acting on impulse, the whole thing was easy. After school, they raided Mrs. Pope's classroom for the thing Martha made, that stupid piece of extra credit, and took the ship in the bottle with them like a trophy. What kind of fucking freak made a ship with bones on it anyway?

Out in the parking lot, they were messing around with the other guys, kicking a football and punching each other. Rod got the bright idea to bring out his and Carl's new toy and smash it around as well. Rod jumped on the glass bottle to break it open, then they took turns kicking the wood to bits. It was a whale ship, made by a whale. It was kind of poetic that it would come to such an end. There were a couple of other kids in the parking lot, the stoners who never noticed anything in front of them and the creepy trenchcoat guy in black, but Carl's and Rod's buddies would never tell on them. They were having a good time. They kicked the splintered remains of the ship into the grass and headed home.

—

 _Note:_

'You can always judge a man by the quality of his enemies' - Oscar Wilde

In 1989, there were probably a greater number of high school students in the United States called 'Jason' than 'Heather'.


	12. Dreadful Etiquette

You could feel the ground cracking under your feet with white-hot lava below and the screams and cries filling up the halls like a chorus of the damned and your blood boiling inside your body and waiting to explode outward. Not one thing, but rather a host of cruelties and injustices and battles, in whispers and notes and blows and jeers and destruction all around.

 _For a good time, call Veronica Sawyer_ , some dumbass had scratched into the wall above the men's urinal. J.D. took out a switchblade from his coat and slashed viciously over the wall, until both graffiti and plaster were torn out. There was no hope for Westerburg High. He was running late for his appointment.

A note in Heather Duke's handwriting was the simplest way to get the job done. Veronica would have done better, but he thought his efforts were passable.

Straight after last-period phys ed, Carl Kellerman and Rod Swirsky were en route to a hot date with two Heathers. They never arrived.

The first rule of fighting: there are no such things as rules. The way to win a fight: hit fast, hit hard, and don't stop until they can't get up again. His mother was more about the art and the technique of taking on bigger, heavier weights and winning; Bud Dean was a straightforward finish-by-any-means-necessary type.

J.D. struck first, barely a moment after they even knew he'd ambushed them. A solid punch to Carl's guts winded him. J.D. rabbit-punched the back of Carl's neck as he bent over, and he dropped to the ground. Rod came at him, shouting something, moving like a boxer. Like _fuck_ he expected to play by Queensberry rules. The Marquess of Queensberry was an asshole anyway. So J.D. booted Rod in the groin, then put him down with a punch in the skull.

 _They deserve some_ extra _punishment._ He kicked Carl in the ribs to stop him from getting up.

There were witnesses, unfortunately, so J.D. leaned back on the wall and lit up a last cigarette to wait for the authority figures.

Somehow, J.D. didn't feel the satisfaction he'd expected, looking down at the two broken boys writhing on the ground. He'd betrayed the most important rule, which was: the best way to win a fight is to never have it at all. _Just shoot them already._ The worst scrape on him was some barked, bruised knuckles. He would have liked the chance to finish his smoke before the first teacher got there. He should count himself lucky it was afterschool detention and not suspension. That might have paused his other plans.

He met Martha Dunnstock's eyes as she rolled into Mrs. Pope's class the next day. The two jocks had decided to give the class the present of their absence. Martha's model was gone and smashed, but he'd fixed that, even if she didn't quite realize the poetic justice of it. She leaned away from J.D. as she spoke to him, with her left hand twitching nervously around the scooter bar.

"I heard about what you did to Carl and Rod," she said softly.

"And?"

Martha spoke a little louder, gaining courage. Her eyes narrowed into a cross between contempt and fear. "And that was violent and wrong and you need help. I mean, professional, adult help."

"I suppose my footwork was a little sloppy. Should take more lessons," J.D. quipped. The line didn't seem to go down particularly well.

"You once asked if I was scared of you. The answer is yes," Martha said, and it was tragic and horrible that living in this place had clearly warped her mind so much that she couldn't see a logical way forward out of the bullying.

J.D. didn't owe her an explanation, or anyone else. "This is why people walk over you and why they will always walk over you," he said, and then realized he'd spoken much more loudly than he'd meant. He unclenched his fists. Nothing more anyone said could matter to him.

"I want you to leave me alone," Martha said. She went to her place at the front of the classroom and didn't look back.

J.D. sat in the back of Ms. Fleming's detention room, trying to look busy with German translation and avoid her conversation. Call him an optimist about Fleming's methods of holding hands and forced togetherness. She'd proven herself to be an idiot, obviously, but maybe it could have worked on some students.

Fleming's attention was all on Courtney, one of the country club kids. She'd run to almost as many networks as Heather Duke to talk about her post-mortem feelings for Chandler. "After my mom died from the ghost," Courtney said, "and then, so soon, when Heather went as well, I was so overcome with feelings."

 _Wait, I think both of those count as my work_ , J.D. thought. He remembered the woman possessed by a wraith when they came to town. Amazing irony. Courtney's mom had been as good as dead before he even saw her; the ghost inhabiting her body had started killing other people for food. It would be tactless, no doubt, to mention it.

There was a knock at the door, and before there was a reply Heather Duke walked in. Fleming broke off.

"Come in, Heather, dear," Fleming said after the fact. "Thank you so much for your energizing support of the synchronous group psychic healing we've been practicing. Those extra credits will soon be on the record."

Duke simpered. "Thank you so much. Can I borrow J.D.? Mrs. Curtis wants to know if he can serve out his time in the science labs today. Group project. Do you want to see the note?" She held up a folded piece of paper.

"That's all right, Heather. Off you go." Fleming turned her attention back to Courtney, telling her about healing natural fabrics and the best incenses to ease pain.

"I'm a little mad about that stunt you pulled on Carl and Rod," Duke said, leading the way forward. She crumpled the paper into a ball and threw it away. "That shit doesn't make you an alpha male, just an idiot."

"Yeah, I know," J.D. said. He would have liked to shut her up about it.

"Blackmail and bloodthirst are really blunt instruments, aren't they? Watch and learn a little subtlety," Heather said. J.D. supposed she'd earned that superior expression. "Lucky for you, you didn't damage Carl's face too badly, and he's still coming to the pep rally. Therefore, I can't be _that_ upset at you," she lectured.

J.D. caught the smirk in her voice that suggested she interpreted his actions as all about her. Heather tolerated him as a convenient pawn as long as he kept a certain chivalric distance from her, gazing admiringly from afar and talking to her only of business. Her feelings for any other human being seemed to be permanently frozen below zero, but she loved the idea of being widely wanted without giving in. _Not to imply that a lack of interest in yours truly is a gauge for the entire gender, but I get the impression that Ms. Duke especially despises the company of men._ It was none of his business - the key issue was how she treated others.

Heather pushed open the door to the science lab. "I was thinking we could have some fun with Bunsen burners," she said.

One completed petition, signed by the students of Westerburg High, carefully stored away. Childhood photos and negatives of Heather Duke and Martha Dunnstock, the last tangible proofs of old memories, burned to ashes in red and gold fire. Heather laughed as she set them alight, one by one.

"Someone wrote Poor Little Heather graffiti in the cheerleaders' locker room in giant yellow letters," she said. "And I don't even know who did it. It's so very. I love it."

"A spectacle worthy of you, as you are worthy of it," J.D. said. Heather smiled, her eyes hungry and dark, and fed another portrait to the Bunsen flames, like a city or town or school might also burn.

—

J.D. waited in the street, and checked the weight of his loaded gun again. He had to tidy up the loose end. Veronica was the only Westerburg student who hadn't signed his petition. Typical. Admirable of her, even _. Wait until you see what our fellow students really signed, Veronica._

He wanted to win her back. Or, at the very least, make sure it was quick and painless.

 _What else are you supposed to do after you inherit a basement full of dynamite, Veronica?_

He lit a cigarette in the dying sunset on the street. Wait until night truly fell and lights came on in the houses. They needed to talk.

—

"Not another step, young lady. We need to talk," Veronica's mother said.

Both her parents, sitting straight up in their usual lounge chairs, waiting for her to come in. She could have easily lived without the interruption.

"Your - uh - friend, Jason Dean, stopped by," her mother said.

 _He got inside. He found me._ Veronica's heart stopped.

"You have not looked well lately. He's worried you might try to commit suicide. Like his father."

 _Oh hell._

"He said we should keep you away from sharp objects and other dangerous items," her father said. "Kitchen knives, forks, skewers, lobster picks, nutcrackers, zesters, can openers, apricot pits, olive oil. Ladders, car exhaust pipes, matches, garage doors, tall buildings. Prescription drugs, bathtubs, razors, mirrors, curtain rods, towels. Have I forgotten anything?" he asked her mother.

"No alcohol, especially before driving. That's from us," her mother added. "You don't want to end up like that Remington young man who drove over a bridge."

Veronica had already read the newspaper article on David Harper.

"Jason left you a note." Her mother handed Veronica a sealed envelope. Veronica opened it, trying to keep her hands from shaking.

 _Recognize the handwriting?_ he'd written. Veronica knew it as her own hand. She stuffed the note in her bag and headed upstairs, climbing two steps at a time. She unlocked her bedroom, turned on the lights. She saw her bed neatly made with its shades of blue sheets, her chest-of-drawers as normal, her walls and bookshelves all the same as when she'd left that morning. Then she saw one of her old Barbies hanging from the ceiling, a noose tightly tied around its neck. A cold breeze blew from her open window, and the doll shook in the wind.

Jason Dean's head popped up above her sill. "Sorry to come in through the window. Dreadful etiquette, I apologize."

She fled into the walk-in closet, slammed the door behind her, and sealed the lock from the inside with her little finger in the mechanism. She heard J.D. slowly climb in and walk toward her.

She hadn't, somehow, expected the next words out of his mouth to be, "I found your book."

—

 _Note:_ 'A spectacle worthy of you, as you are worthy of it' - paraphrase from Quo Vadis by Henryk Sienkiewicz.

And John Douglas, 9th Marquess of Queensberry, responsible for the Queensberry Rules of boxing and Oscar Wilde's cruel downfall, was _definitely_ an asshole.


	13. In Blood Stepp'd In So Far

She hadn't, somehow, expected the next words out of his mouth to be, "I found your book."

"Mar's Guide to Seers, 1976 edition," J.D. said. "A classic of the genre. Chapters two and seven are out of date nowadays, but it's a good choice. Hiding it under the tampons was a great idea, but what can I say? I got a B-plus in Human Anatomy in two different schools."

Veronica didn't say anything.

"You're a seer. I don't get why you never told me. I wouldn't have turned you in to the government registry, I would have understood. We could have been partners, real partners. Not like me and my father. A seer and a hunter, equal and opposite, working together."

 _I didn't tell you because I wanted to get away from you._ Veronica's hands found her party dress in the closet, the one she'd worn to Remington. Her fingernails started to shred the fabric, slowly and painfully.

She heard J.D. sit down, his back against the closet door. He relaxed into it, the door creaking once, and talked to her.

"You fed the jocks to a ghost on purpose, that night they attacked you. That was great. My father would've been impressed," J.D. said. "Then you went and drained yourself.

"Someone we killed came back as a ghost, and you've been feeding them," he continued, relentlessly. He understood now. He knew why she'd been so pale and ill. He'd seen right through her. Veronica twisted the fabric in her hands, threads coming apart under pressure. "I'm going to guess Heather. Fucking Heather. You're not the first seer to do that trick. It gives you more control over the ghosts, but makes them more powerful."

 _I already knew that_ , Veronica thought. She'd planned for it.

"I remember years ago we did a job in this small town in California," J.D. said, slowly and meditatively. "All the local hunters were dead. We met up with the town seer, Maria. She let me stay at her place, in her kid's room; she took care of me. I liked her at the time. I think she felt like I shouldn't have been allowed to be there, that I was too young or something. It turned out her only son had died in a car crash. She loved him, so she fed his ghost. She kept bleeding herself, watching him grow, and she helped him find other victims. He killed twenty-three people, including Maria, before we got him. Technically, my father killed Maria, snapped her neck, but we didn't put that in the report."

Veronica could hear the sound of his breath, steady and regular.

"I can help you end her," J.D. said. "I know what I'm doing. I started when I was twelve. I think I hated it at the time. My dad made me do it. But everything would be different, with you."

 _I need you out of my house and out of my life._ Veronica knotted together the shreds of the dress, which she'd torn into a set of long strips.

"You know that, when a hunter dies, you bury her by the nearest hospice as soon as you can," he said. "So that her blood protects against other ghosts rising. It's just a superstition, the effect wears off. One day after she blew herself up, what was left of her was in the ground. Two days after that, I was wearing my mom's old badge and taking her place in the crew. Then, you helped me. You set me free. After you shot him, I realized I actually wanted to quit. I didn't want to do it any more, but I'll make an exception for you. Let's hunt Heather together, tonight. What do you say?"

Veronica heard him stand up. Time had run out. She had to finish what she had to do.

"I tried a lot of different things," J.D. said. "Playing cards, holding down a job, re-grouting the shower. All that normal crap. But I realized nothing worked. There's only one way this can end. The only question is whether you'll come with me or not."

She heard him punch through her lock. The wood splintered open around the metal. The knob clattered to the floor, and the door flew open.

Veronica hung from her closet rail, head down, eyes closed, a noose around her neck. Under her clothes, the rest of the fabric was looped around her waist to support her. She swung back and forth, her body still, hanging from a rope like an executed murderer.

The ultimate fake suicide.

J.D. said nothing for a long while. She wondered if he'd left. Eventually, he spoke again, sounding flat and numbed.

"Well, this places Heather Chandler firmly in the someone-else's-problem column," he said. "It's a pity you can't see the petition our fellow students _really_ signed." There was a sound like tearing paper, ripping off the original innocuous phrasing of Heather Duke's petition. "Even I signed. No matter how this goes down, I won't exist afterwards. An anonymous pile of fragments, or a free man. Here's what we promised.

"We, the students of Westerburg High, will die. Today. Our burning bodies are the ultimate protest against a society that degrades us. Fuck you all.

"It's not very subtle, but neither is blowing up an entire school. A Norwegian in the boiler room and a pack of thermals in the gym at the pep rally. Damn it, Veronica. We could have toasted marshmallows together."

Veronica heard movement on the ground floor of the house, a footstep on the stairs below.

"Veronica! Dinner!" her mother called. "Veronica?"

She thought she heard J.D. scrabbling for the exit out the window, but she couldn't risk it. She couldn't dare move until after her mother forced her way into her bedroom and screamed.

"I should have let you take that job at the pasta restaurant," her mother said. "I didn't want you coming home late at night. I should have gone to parent-teacher interviews this semester. I should have taken us to church more than just Easter and Christmas. I should have ..."

Veronica opened her eyes. Her hand crept up her back and loosened the knots. Breathless, still breathing, she dropped to the floor.

"Why so tense, Mom?" she asked.

—

Pauline Fleming was a busy woman. Her teenage suicide prevention program tugged at vulnerable heartstrings and brought out the best kind of inner sunshine, radiance, and bonding in everyone. The other staff had initially scoffed at her and played yet another a round of bash-the-hippie, oh weren't they so _clever_ and _original_ , but Pauline had the last laugh on them. She'd been interviewed by three major news networks in the past week and expected to hold an even bigger tribute next week. That sweet girl Heather Duke, so beloved by all her peers, was a wonderful support to the cause and a true leader. Not to mention that she looked so spiritual and inspiring in front of the camera. Pauline might ask the dear child for some little fashion tips, later.

Pauline definitely cared about every last one of her students, which was all that motivated her to act in the first place. So, of course, she had the time to talk to every teenager who approached her, even one who was normally sullen and quiet in her classes, one of those bad-attitude cases. The boy who always wore that horrible dusty black coat, such a negative color. He was going through a tragic time after his father's death, getting in trouble for fighting. His legal guardian ought to be called in for a talk one of these days, but Pauline had no idea who that was.

The troubled youth had an intense stare that Pauline found highly off-putting. There were dark circles under his eyes as if he had not slept. She would have to counsel him later that that sort of look was not helpful for future prospects when interviewing for college or work.

He spoke first, rather aggressively. "I let you have all those love-ins. I thought that hippie shit might actually help. But Veronica Sawyer killed herself last night."

'I let you' indeed, Pauline thought. That phrasing was very rude, but she was a tolerant woman. And that was terrible news.

"How dreadful. We'll have to put together a tribute for her. Do you have any photographs?" Veronica Sawyer had been a very popular student; a lovely girl, Heather Chandler's soulmate, beautiful and truly deep inside. She was one of Mrs. Pope's star English students, Pauline hazily thought. Did she also write a lyrical suicide note?

"Honestly, I think that's the thing Veronica would least want. She despised you. She called bullshit on you from the first. She was right," the boy said. He still had that horrible stare. And bad language, too, but that was understandable for a grieving soul. "She was smarter than me."

"Look, I understand this troubles you, Jamie," Pauline said. She was pretty sure that was his first name. It was hard when they used initials or nicknames. She snuck a stealthy look at the clock. "We have the pep rally starting next period, so I can't stay now, but afterwards I would love to talk this over with you. You know where my office is."

Pauline gave him a warm and friendly wave and left out the door. Part of him certainly hoped the boy would take advantage of her offer and come for some serious counseling; another part of her hoped she would never see that unsettling glare again as long as she lived. But that was such an uncharitable thing to think. She loved all her students, after all.

—

Veronica came late to school, a ghost walking the empty hallways. She saw Martha, from a distance, but didn't stop to say hello. She ducked out of sight and into the women's bathrooms whenever she could. She brought a pouch full of her special hairpins and other picks.

She flicked open the tumblers to J.D.'s locker. _Thank you, Martha, for the suggestion._ There were interesting things in that locker. One loaded gun, complete with Ich Lüge bullets. She carefully put it in her handbag and checked her watch. The pep rally began in fifteen minutes.

She walked down the dusty concrete steps as quietly as she could. She took out the gun, holding it ready to use. The boiler room was an underbelly of the school she'd never visited before. Flaking white paint on the walls, hairline cracks running through the concrete and the floors, and a fire alarm on the walls. Cut wires dangled from the bottom of the alarm. She approached the bottom of the steps and a hallway, and saw the black figure bent down in the center of it.

"May I see your hall pass?" she said.

She had the satisfaction of watching him jump, turn around, and see her standing there alive with his own gun pointed at him.

"I knew that loose was too noose," J.D. said. "Noose too loose. Damn it."

"Put the bomb on the ground," Veronica said. J.D.'s eyes flicked contemptuously downwards to the bomb at his feet. "I knew that. Stay back," she said. She felt her hands shake slightly and saw the end of the gun waver before her, but J.D. didn't move forward. "It's not just Heather's ghost, you know. It's all of them. Heather, Kurt, Ram, and your father." She'd hoped that naming Bud Dean would rattle him, but J.D.'s expression didn't change. "Heather's controlling the others. She remembers everything, especially what we did. She's intelligent. She was the one who told your father. She tried to make Heather commit suicide. And I think she killed this guy called David Harper. I haven't seen him as a ghost, and the accident report said he had a lot of alcohol in his blood, but ..."

That one actually got a reaction. "But he was Heather's boyfriend," J.D. said, following the direction of her thought. "I saw him that night at the Snappy Snack Shack, recognized him from the funeral. Asshole parked in the handicapped zone." And suddenly an alternative theory of David Harper's death flashed across Veronica's mind. J.D. seemed to understand her sudden suspicion. He quirked an eyebrow, as if to say _oh, seriously?_ "No, darling, I didn't kill him. The accident report spooked me at first, all he did was talk to me and die. Don't drink and drive, kids. If what you say is true, Chandler's a different kind of ghost."

He was just interested enough to talk. Perhaps that was progress.

"You offered to fix this," Veronica said. "And now that you're on the opposite end of the gun, I can trust you a lot more. Put your hands on your head."

Suddenly, he lurched forward. Veronica let off the gun. J.D. shouted and reeled sideways, but by then he was already on top of her. He was angry, demonic in his pale face and dark look, fighting swiftly and brutally. A monster who wanted to blow up an entire school. His right hand smashed her wrist against the wall and she dropped the gun. The back of her head hit the wall, hard.

"That offer came with an expiry date," he snarled. J.D.'s coat was torn above his left bicep, but if she'd hit him it didn't seem to slow him down. Veronica struck out with her left hand, almost randomly, and her nails sunk into his cheek and drew blood before he battered her aside. He grabbed her by the hair and slammed her head into his knee, twice.

Veronica felt herself collapse bonelessly, almost out of consciousness, part feigning it but mostly just giving way to the stars in her head.

The world was black, and then the darkness receded from her. She lay crouched on the ground. Veronica opened her eyes, cautiously. The bomb was taped to a column. Red numbers on it blinked downward. J.D. was still bent over it, working carefully.

The fire extinguisher wasn't far from her. She unclipped it from the wall, quiet as if they were in a tomb. Veronica crept up behind her ex-lover, the heavy weight of the extinguisher ready to strike.

He saw or heard her just before she brought it down. The extinguisher glanced off his shoulder instead of his skull. Veronica saw his bag spill open, saw the gun slide across the floor in the opposite direction. She made a dive for it. J.D. fled, plunging through a pile of metal drums, knocking them down around her. Veronica held the gun, standing on her feet.

She approached the bomb. A black casing, red buttons, and a countdown. Two minutes and counting.

He was crouched in the corner, hiding like a rabid animal. "You know Martha's at school today, right?" Veronica said. "She pitied you, but then she started to see you're psychotic, not just pathetic - Turn off the bomb." There was no time.

"I couldn't stop them. The only place that different social types can get along is in heaven," J.D. said. In his voice was the bleak finality at the end of all things.

The countdown was on, she knew she couldn't run, and she panicked. "I'll kill you, I swear to God, I'll fucking kill you. How do I turn it off?"

"Try the red button." J.D.'s crouch was like a tiger, ready to leap.

Her glance slid to the three identical red buttons near her, then back to her enemy. The fucker would think it was hilarious if all three buttons triggered the bomb.

"Which red button?"

He threw up a middle finger. Veronica fired. She wasn't sure herself where she was aiming, but J.D. jerked upward and then his finger exploded in a shower of blood and gore. J.D. clutched his hand. Blood streamed from it. He was maimed, unnerved, and in in pain. He dropped to his knees and crawled, grasping an old piece of rag, trying to staunch all the blood. He stared at the wound as if he couldn't believe she'd actually done it.

Veronica held the gun, unwavering. "It's over. Help me end it."

The blood soaked the cloth wrapped around his hand. He looked up at her, met her eyes. "So maybe I'm blowing up an entire school because nobody loves me. But it's pretty deep, isn't it? They'll see the ashes of Westerburg High and they'll say, there's a school that self destructed not because society didn't care, but because that school was society. You want the slate clean as much as I do."

"You know what I want?" Veronica said.

He leapt up, a knife suddenly in his left hand, lunging. He was on her. She could smell smoke and feel the weight and heat of him. She fired again. The barrel was hot like fire in her hand. She'd shot him point-blank. The knife arced down, stabbing the bomb. J.D. clung to it to hold himself upright, then slumped down. The countdown had stopped. He fell to the ground and lay still.

She didn't bother to tell his unconscious body what she wanted.

Four seconds left on the counter, frozen in time. Veronica put the gun in her pocket and started to unstrap the bomb from the column. She pried off the duct tape with the edge of a lockpick.

Then J.D. was on her again, grappling her from behind. He'd played possum. He'd done _her_ trick. They both wrestled for the gun. His blood soaked Veronica's hands. She squeezed his bloody right hand and he cried out. Blood from J.D.'s torso soaked her shirt. His eyes were desperate, blood running down his face. He trapped her right hand on the ground with his good hand, pinning her down with the weight of his body.

Once, it would have been playful wrestling, tangled in the sheets of her bed. This time, they were fighting for their lives. No, this was fighting for death. Veronica brought her knee up into his groin, hard. He grimaced and fell to the side, on top of her. The hot metal of the gun was trapped between them.

The gun fired. Veronica thought it was her, at first. A torrent of liquid soaked her shirt and she felt fire and heat. Then J.D. collapsed over her and she rolled him off her, feeling only dead weight. A growing pool of blood formed under him. The gun was still between them, the barrel hot. Veronica picked it up and thought of firing a round directly into his skull, just to make sure.

Instead, she aimed high and fired against the far wall, twice. Then the gun stopped working. That seemed to be the end.

With the bomb tucked under her jacket, she walked up the stairs. Her bruises felt like one big ache. She could still hear the distant noises of the pep rally, the cheering and screaming.

She thought about looking in at the gymnasium, one last time, to see Heather McNamara cartwheeling like mad, Martha somewhere in the back, Dennis holding hands with his new girlfriend. It would be nice to see what she had saved. But there wasn't really time. She left the school halls behind.

Veronica pushed open the door at the top of the stairs, out in the fresh air. She placed her free hand on the banister to steady herself. Then she called out.

"Heather, come to me."

Veronica waited, and in moments Heather Chandler appeared before her in the air, pouting. Bud Dean stood behind Heather like a bodyguard, although Veronica couldn't see Kurt and Ram anywhere. Well, Heather was the one who really mattered here.

Heather looked annoyed, as if she knew that she'd been summoned like a dog.

"It's over," Veronica said. "I fed you. You should know that the connection goes both ways. We're bound together, you and me." She touched her sleeve, over the ragged places on her wrist where she'd cut, again and again. "I worked out how to destroy you. I'm going down, and you're going down with me."

She opened her jacket, over the bomb.

"Wait a second," Heather said, "I really think we should talk about this."

Veronica grappled with the knife embedded in the bomb. Could she get the timer to come on again? Or just apply her cigarette lighter to the end and hope for the best. She held Heather in her place, the connection between them stronger than steel.

"As in, before you ineptly try to blow us both up, best friend, I think you should enjoy the pep rally," Heather said.

And then, on either side of the double door, Heather McNamara and Heather Duke walked out. Only they weren't themselves. Veronica looked at them, and she saw foreign colors glittering behind their eyes, shimmering underneath their skin. Kurt and Ram lurked inside them, invisible to everyone but Veronica, two malicious ghosts using the human bodies to attack.

Heather McNamara pinned Veronica's arms behind her back. She was taller and stronger than Veronica, with a cheerleader's muscles. Veronica couldn't make her let go. Heather Duke held the bomb. She shook her large green handbag upside down, and out cascaded makeup and brushes and stationery. Anyone could have told that she was possessed by a wraith, since Heather Duke would never show that much disrespect to L'Oreal matte blush or her Parker fountain pen set. Duke's body slipped the bomb in her handbag and fastened it back together. Her face was twisted into a leer Veronica had often seen on Kurt's face.

Heather faced Veronica in triumph, laughing at her own success, her mouth flashing radiant blue and her dress red as blood. "I'd love to say this was all my idea," she said, "but this plan's all on Wonder Boy. Great life choices there, best friend! And now, it's mine. The bomb goes off at the pep rally, and every soul in Westerburg High belongs to me.

"Think of it as the apology you owe me." Heather drew almost close enough to touch Veronica, but instead of reaching out a spectral hand she only beamed in pure exultation. "I ruled Westerburg when I was alive. I deserve it now that I'm dead."


	14. These Violent Delights Have Violent Ends

"I ruled Westerburg when I was alive. I deserve it now that I'm dead," Heather announced. The ghost was radiant with triumph, shining red and gold in the air. She looked like she was made from light, riding high on strength and power. Her minions stood by her, ready to obey every command. Heather McNamara, possessed by Ram's ghost, held Veronica imprisoned, twisting Veronica's arms painfully behind her. "It's fitting that you should be the one to deliver it to me."

Veronica had nothing to say. She'd already seen Heather seize control of the other ghosts. Give Heather an army of Westerburg students who died in fire, death and destruction everywhere, and it might as well be the end of the world.

McNamara let go of one of Veronica's arms, only for Duke to take it up instead, gripping her by the upper sleeve and digging her fingernails into flesh. They might look like two friends marching a slacker back to the pep rally. They dragged her toward the doors.

Veronica looked down at the blood on her skirt, felt it still wet on her hands. Heather had not touched her, she thought. She kicked Heather Duke behind the knee, pulled her arm free, and punched Heather McNamara.

She could feel what she had done. Heather stumbled back, losing her grip on Veronica's upper arm, and Veronica could see that she had hurt the ghost inside her as well. Heather came back at her with an underhand blow, and Veronica caught the punch in her bloodied hands. She returned it with a blow to the head.

Only a hunter had the power to slay ghosts. And Veronica had hunter's blood on her hands.

The ghosts used the human bodies as shields, but they could still be injured. J.D.'s blood gave her his power. Veronica pressed her attack on Heather McNamara's body and didn't give up, aiming for the ghost within her. She could see the shimmer of the ghost waver inside Heather, stumble. Heather was on the edge of the staircase now. Veronica shoved Heather McNamara's stomach with both hands. McNamara took a hard fall to the bottom of the staircase, where her body collapsed and lay still. Ram stepped out of McNamara and decided to continue the attack. Kurt tried to use Heather Duke's body to hold Veronica back, but she lunged forward and stepped through Ram. The blood on her clothes stung him, burned him. She punched through what felt like cold air but was much more dangerous. Ram looked startled and incredulous that she could actually hurt him. He held up his arms as if to defend himself. Veronica hit him again, feeling like it was a weaker blow, but it was enough. The ghost dissolved first into colorful fragments in the air, and then to nothing at all. Ram's ghost was laid.

Veronica punched Heather Duke's body next, but that blow barely seemed to come to anything at all.

"Try it again," Heather Chandler boasted, and this time Duke stood still with Kurt's smirk on her face and let Veronica hit her in the chest. She and the ghost inside her looked like they felt no pain. Veronica looked down at the drying blood on her hands. The effect wore off.

It was Bud Dean's turn to move forward. Veronica tried to run, but Bud's hand passed through her shoulder. She felt weak and tired, while he grew stronger. Bud's expression was still utterly blank and devoid of individual personality, all under Heather's control. He drained Veronica until it was easy for Heather Duke to slip beside her and hold her up with one arm under her shoulder, a parody of a supportive friend. Kurt grinned as he drew her close.

"Heather?" Veronica heard another voice. Martha Dunnstock wheeled through the door. She was looking at Heather Duke, her expression timid and scared although she dared to speak up anyway. "I'm sorry, I'm really sorry if you didn't want to be bothered. I saw you and Heather just leave the pep rally, and I thought it was strange, as if everyone else was blind to you. I didn't know ... Are you and Veronica okay?"

She _saw_ , Veronica thought. Heather fed the pep rally illusions as if a cheerleader could just disappear from the scene with no one caring, but Martha was different. Martha clearly couldn't see the ghosts, but she'd still noticed what they did under the illusion. Hope soared within Veronica.

 _Heather never drained Martha, and she urged me to kill her._

"Oh my god, what happened to Heather?" Martha stuttered, as she saw McNamara's unconscious body.

"Martha, help me," Veronica asked. "Heather's possessed by a wraith. _And you're a hunter._ "

It was always more difficult to find hunters than seers. Schools gave kids mandatory removalist tests, but the only way to really test for that ability was in the field.

Veronica knew she was right. Martha came close and reached for Heather Duke's wrist. Duke pulled back from her touch as if it burned her. Veronica grabbed the green handbag as the two of them went down together, fighting on the stairs. Martha tipped out of her wheelchair and fell on top of Duke, then Duke tried to get out from under her. Martha shouted in terrible pain, but she must have known that the thing looking out from Duke's eyes was nothing human. Martha fought it, used her weight and her one good arm to pin Heather Duke down and hit her hard in the collarbone. Then Veronica saw Kurt Kelly's shape rise up and out of Heather's body.

"Above you," she told Martha, and Martha's hand swiped through the air. Martha clung to the stair rail and dragged herself up, screaming in pain as she tried to move her leg. "Fall forward," Veronica asked, knowing it would hurt Martha, begging her to act anyway, and Martha let herself go.

Kurt fell apart while Veronica watched, and Martha lay broken at the bottom of the stairs.

"How rude," Heather Chandler said. She giggled, as if it didn't matter to her at all that she had lost two of her servants. "Way to betray your fat friend again." She was very close to Veronica, turning the air cold all around her. Then Heather touched Veronica's forehead, leaned her face in as if she were about to kiss her, and instead slipped all the way through her.

"I'm going to get help. Just stay where you are," Veronica heard her own voice say. She couldn't breathe, couldn't move. Heather was inside her, possessing her, owning both her body and her mind.

She understood now what Heather felt. Veronica herself and Duke and McNamara were fresh meat, sizzling with hot delicious blood, food that intoxicated and called predators to take them now. A ghost felt the desperate hunger of a starved corpse, a hollow-stomached emptiness like the pit of a grave that could never be filled. And even though Heather had turned away from the broken girl at the bottom of the steps, the ghost could still feel Martha's presence behind them. Martha was a hunter, a fire. She was feared because she would burn.

And there was another. Veronica and Heather felt him before they could see him, walking slowly, coming out of the school from the boiler room to find them. If Martha was fire, then J.D. was an inferno. He was dripping with blood, fresh blood pouring from the gunshots Veronica put in him. He radiated power and death with every step. He walked through the halls, barely holding himself together, drawn to seek her out.

Veronica also understood why most people possessed by wraiths never came out of it. Heather was inside her brain, squeezing it tightly with a chilling, murderous frost, warping it into agonizing shapes it was never meant to be. Heather calmly looked at J.D. with Veronica's eyes.

"Hello, lover," Heather said, imitating Veronica. "Was it good for you too?" She tried to bypass him, stay on the other side and simply walk back to the pep rally.

He lurched over to them, and Heather couldn't stop him. J.D. wrapped his arms tightly around them in a bear hug. His blood burned Heather, but Veronica's body was a shield for her. He looked down into Veronica's eyes, blood running down his face.

He spoke slowly and deliberately. "You were a bitch when you were alive, Chandler, but at least give credit where it's due. You know the whole thing was my idea, right?"

He knew her. Veronica saw J.D.'s face through Heather controlling her eyes. He was bloodied and desperate and determined. He took one look at her and recognized Heather inside her body, knew her through some subtlety of expression or movement or tone that Veronica hadn't expected would be perceptible. Through everything they'd been through and all that they had done, he understood her. This time, they were fighting on the same side.

Veronica could feel Heather's incandescent rage at J.D.'s boast, rage that made her sloppy. Heather tried to struggle free, tried to bring her knee sharply upwards. But he'd prepared for that this time and held her still. Heather elbowed J.D. in the chest, directly in one of the gunshot wounds, but although he groaned he didn't let go. Fresh blood ran more freely from the wound and that gave Heather more pain. J.D. whispered something, incoherent wishes and hopeless hopes. He held on to Veronica through the storm, no matter how terribly the ghost fought against his presence.

Suddenly, the crushing icy pressure in Veronica's brain was gone. Heather, overcome by the pain, flew out of her. Veronica was herself again, blood-soaked, looking into J.D.'s eyes. He seemed to know it was her, and something like relief washed over his face. "I don't normally do that ..." he muttered. "You - should have known you would be different. You really fucked me up, Veronica ... color me impressed."

He kissed her, blood from his chin coating her mouth, salt and copper on her tongue. New blood spilt over her hands and her clothes. For a moment she gave in, felt the rattling heartbeat in his warm body, kissed like it was the end of the world.

Then she remembered what they had done and what he had tried to do, and she bit his lip hard enough to draw blood. J.D. lifted his head, more blood on his mouth, and looked resigned and tired, as if he'd expected nothing less.

"If you can, tell my father I solved his dynamite riddle," J.D. said. He broke off from Veronica entirely and started to walk down the stairs. Then Veronica saw the green handbag on his shoulder instead of her own. Damn him for distracting her. J.D.'s good hand reached inside to check what he must have already known was in there. "Martha! Get out of here!" he yelled.

Martha stirred on the ground at the bottom of the stairs, trying to get up. Veronica knew Martha didn't fully understand what was happening, but she grasped enough to know that she was in danger where she was. She seemed to interpret J.D.'s order as 'get Heather and Heather away', struggling with Heather Duke's body even though her own was broken. Veronica could sense J.D.'s annoyance as he walked on, but he should have known that was the kind of person Martha was. He'd just have to live with it. Or not.

Heather Chandler, floating before them, actually began to look nervous. "Guess this is my cue to retreat and fight another day," she said. "It's been a real slice of drama, best friend." She and Bud tried to leave.

Veronica drew on her abilities. "I'm not letting you enjoy an all-you-can-eat human buffet, Heather," she said.

And Veronica was at the height of her seer's power, her senses full of the ghosts she'd fed. She was steeped in hunter's blood, untouchable for the moment and strong in willpower. She and Heather shared a bond that she could use to bring her ghosts to heel and finally lay them to rest. Veronica held onto the banister and stood straight. Heather swore at her and she and Bud tried to resist, but Veronica positioned them carefully, holding them at Westerburg High whether they liked it or not.

Veronica and J.D. understood each other, intimately knew the steps of the dance they arranged with the ghosts. They both shared the underlying cold decision to do what must be done. They could have worked well together, in another life. The debt was paid and the slate was clean.

Veronica knew she couldn't hold the ghosts in place forever. She waited a little longer for Martha to scramble upwards, trying to take Duke and McNamara with her. Veronica set Heather and Bud as far as possible away from the school. She barely needed to direct J.D. where to go; he tracked her small gestures and followed where she glanced.

Then J.D. was in position, Heather and Bud gathered just beyond him. Veronica felt the fringes of her control over the ghosts weakening. It was now or never. She gave him the signal.

J.D. reached inside the green handbag. He started to say something, a last request or statement or question, but Veronica couldn't hear him. The bomb exploded.

He died alone.

Veronica kept her eyes open throughout the ending. She saw a fountain of blood, surging out and into the ghosts. She saw Heather Chandler and Bud Dean finally shatter under the torrent of hunter's blood, break into ten thousand fragments, and disintegrate into absolute nothingness. She saw and smelt black smoke from the explosion, and tasted something like ash and droplets of blood in her mouth.

( _I shot you three times, I'm not_ that _sorry you're dead ..._ )

Martha lay over Heather Duke, covering her with her own body, stirring slightly. Heather McNamara was near them, the only sign of life a slight rise and fall of her chest, her face bloodied and filthy. Inside, Veronica could hear that the pep rally had come to a sudden end. People were calling anxiously to each other, rushing out to see what was going on.

Veronica stayed standing and reached inside her pocket for a cigarette. She might need a lot of things, but right now she'd settle for a smoke.


	15. Dawn

No one could be possessed by a ghost without some form of brain damage. Veronica was lucky; she'd been under for a bare few minutes. For a month afterwards, she felt a psychosomatic chill, a constant frost that shivered inside her blood and bones no matter how warm she really was. Heather McNamara lost her fine motor control, but relearned enough skills in time to return to cheerleading before the end of the school year. Heather Duke lost her ability to speak, and was too badly damaged to return to school. Martha sent her care packages in the hospital, mostly consisting of books, although Heather never wrote back.

The story they ended up with cast J.D. not so much as a suicide or murderer, but an imprudent hunter who tried to end a dangerous ghost with extreme and terrible means. After a lot of questioning and partial truths mixed with downright lies, Veronica found the opportunity to steal into the gymnasium alone and take down the packs of thermals. She broke into the Dean house one last time, putting the explosives back where they'd probably been stored before. On impulse, she took the hamster home with her.

Martha was sad that the boy she'd tried to befriend and then quarreled with had died trying to save her life, perhaps in a misguided way. But although her feelings were sincere, she'd never really known J.D. as a person, and she had newfound confidence in herself and her friends to make her resilient. As soon as her twice-broken bones healed, she walked to the town hospice and persuaded the seer and hunter there to give her a part-time job. She knew she had the ability to be a hunter and save lives, and adopted it as her destiny.

Heather McNamara had a scar across her face from the blast that never quite went away, but it was amazing what you could do with makeup. Veronica and Martha tutored her in math, and she passed out of school with flying colors.

Veronica moved forward. She signed up for student council, made a special effort to talk to the Westerburg bullies and Westerburg victims and those who were both at the same time, and used all the strategies she had on hand to act like a decent person. After she left high school behind her for good, she applied to attend the same removalist academy as Martha.

Veronica wrote in her diary again.

 _Take what you want and pay for it, says God._

 _I wanted to be in the shadow of power all my life. I hid behind Heather, I watched J.D. lose control, and I hid from myself. Now I have power and I understand it._

 _I tried Ms. Fleming's way, I tried J.D.'s way, and they didn't work. Now I'm trying my own way. Sometimes soft power and sometimes hard power works. There is no simple answer. I'm honest with myself and move forward._

 _I found out that I am the sort of person who will forge a suicide note, shoot a man, or drive an old friend to attempted suicide to protect herself. I don't want to be that sort of person, but I've learnt what power means. You can't give power away or ignore it. You always have to use it, for better or for worse, and even not making a decision is a decision._

 _I thought that what J.D. did was the only way to destroy the monster we created. He killed without remorse, and I played a role in sentencing him to death._

 _Would he have killed again if it had gone down another way? I think the answer is 'probably'. In any case, I chose to pull the trigger, and I have to live with the consequences. I sent Martha to re-break her bones in order to destroy Kurt Kelly's ghost, and never told her that he used to be the boy she loved. Then I used J.D. to stop Heather, once and for all, and I was the one left standing at the end._

 _I've never suffered fools gladly, and Martha suffers fools too much. I use her as a balance. She's forgiven me for my actions, and believes that J.D.'s extreme solution was only because we had no other choice. Did we? When people say there was no choice, they generally mean either that they couldn't think of anything else at the time, or they have a desperate need to believe any other choice would have been even worse._

 _I truly believe that the shade that rose from Heather's death was different to what she was in reality. When she lived I know I magnified her image more than I had to, like so many others around her did. She was Heather the magnificent giantess, who shook the world with a single word or pout or petulant toss of her golden curls. Who really knew her other than herself? I'm still not sorry that the others are dead, but nor do I know what they might have become if they lived._

 _If we were all free from Heather, what would we choose to be? I'll ask and keep asking that question._

 _It's much easier for me to sleep now. I don't know if I'm driven by wanting to give back in some way; not by undoing my mistakes, because I can't do that, but at least by going on in the opposite way. Or maybe I want to stay by Martha's side. Either way, I have work to do. Midnight is over, and I will be there for the next dawn._

Sometimes Veronica dreamed of the possibility of a dark figure in a black trenchcoat walking through her walls into her bedroom, materializing out of thin air with a twisted smile and a ghostly quip. But hunters could never become ghosts, as the stuff they were made of was wholly opposed to them. And in the end he had made a choice.


	16. Twenty Years After

_September 21st, 2009_

The young man crouched in the shadowy Minneapolis street tried to flee the hunter. She grabbed his arms and held him down while he fought like a wild animal, trying to rip and tear with his teeth and nails.

"Come on. Come out," Veronica asked. She shifted the clicker to the ball of her thumb. The ghost was a formless shimmer inside the kid. Every second counted in a possession case. She brought down the clicker and felt the droplet of blood form over her skin. "Leave him and come to me." The hunter's grasp gave the ghost pain. Veronica kept her whispers and murmurs up, compelling it to seek her and her blood.

Out. The ghost left its victim behind and slipped into the air. Veronica gave Martha the signal, and she beat it down with her nightstick and shattered it. A hunter and a seer, partners, working together to take down a ghost.

The kid had collapsed, but he was still breathing fairly well. Martha checked him over. He started trying to wake up almost immediately, blinking his eyes, which was always a good sign. Veronica updated the paramedics with their location, then brushed her small cut with an alcohol wipe.

The young man couldn't have been more than twenty, probably a college student. He'd discarded a backpack that spilt out a bunch of textbooks in his flight from them. He was grunting and trying to get up already; he looked very pale, probably seeming more than he really was because of his black hair. "Ma'am?" he whispered to Martha, dazed and terrified out of his mind. "Please ... thank you, ma'am?"

He had manners, too. Veronica walked over to her partner and their latest rescuee. The kid's angular features and dark clothing brought back a few old memories to her, her dead high school boyfriend, but this boy clearly had more respect for his elders in his little finger than J.D. ever had in his entire body. Veronica was old enough to consider that trait highly valuable in the youth of today, now. The boy coughed, then started to retch as Martha gently held him up. Then the two paramedics arrived, and took him over.

Veronica and Martha were public servants, removalists for the City of Minneapolis for fifteen years and counting. They dealt with routine cases and patrols, sometimes hospice or police duty. Heather Chandler still received Veronica's personal scariest ghost award, with her malicious intelligence and raw power, but the world was big and wide and there were many worse disasters. Veronica's work lay at the local-scale level, one small ghost at a time. About five years after Westerburg, J.D.'s old crew had hit the news for massive collateral damage coverups; they'd ended up in jail. Not Veronica's style. Start small, and get the job done.

Veronica had put down roots here, made the city her own. Minneapolis summer mosquitoes were hell and the long freezing winters were worse, but the local arts scene and breweries were top-notch. Parks, libraries, Friday night shows, and intensely civic-minded people who had a similar affinity to committees as the Emperor Nero to family violence. She and Martha had arrived together to take up the job offer, two years out of removalist academy. Over the years, they'd separated and reconnected any number of times. Martha had taken five years of maternity leave for her two children, a pair of annoyingly cute, freckled, and gap-toothed munchkins in her wallet photos that she'd show at the slightest provocation. Veronica had just come off a six months' posting to supervise an apprentice hunter, a middle-aged father in the market for a career change. It was good to be back together again.

Veronica's pager showed her a message that the area was clean. You needed to take your breaks when you could in this job; they'd patrolled for four hours straight and could use a coffee.

And a cigarette. Or three. "Are you ever going to give those things up?" Martha asked her, part ribbing her though mostly serious. They sat outside the coffee shop on a bench they liked to think of as theirs, looking across at the public library.

"Eventually. New Year's isn't so far away," Veronica said. Time and time again she'd tried. She still hadn't mastered the quitting thing, but lately she'd at least cut down on intake. Maybe it was time to change therapists again, find someone with the know-how to help her kick the habit for good.

There was a lull in conversation while Veronica smoked her next hit. Martha broke the silence. "Got an email from Heather yesterday," she said. Veronica knew she meant Heather McNamara; or rather, Heather Jones or James or whatever her husband's name was. "She's organizing the twentieth anniversary reunion. I won't talk about it again if you're not interested, but if you are ..."

"Not my style," Veronica said. It was Martha, not her, who kept track; Martha who knew that Heather McNamara was a nurse married to a hospital administrator, and was now up to four children, two dogs, and three guinea pigs. Or that Country Club Courtney was the CEO of a computer chip company in Arkansas, or that Heather Duke, a journalist, got bylined in the Washington Post and just published her second novel, which from the cover design looked like an unrelentingly grim piece of dark reflections on society.

"Heather still talks about how you saved her life twice over, you know. It wouldn't hurt you to put yourself out there and meet everyone," Martha hinted. A great double entendre there; Veronica had only just broken up with Tina. Honestly, the breakup was overdue if anything. A woman well into her thirties should not still care about what her family would (and probably didn't) think about coming out of the closet. Veronica knew she had a tendency to attract people on the wrong side of the line of 'fucked up enough to be interesting' and 'way too fucked up to be even remotely suitable'. She'd left a fairly long trail of discarded lovers in her wake, damn her lack of common sense, but she wasn't planning to hand in her ticket and expire out of the dating market any time soon.

"You have fun and come back with the stories of everyone else's intoxicated messes," Veronica told her.

"I'm looking forward to it," Martha said. "High school was mostly hell, but in that last part of it, I felt like things got better. I had you and Heather, and I figured out what I wanted to do with my life. I know things were hard for you after J.D. died. I still wonder sometimes if I'd done things differently, what I could have changed. He was only seventeen. He shouldn't have been apprenticed so early, he had a tough time ..."

One of Jason Dean's afterlives was as a footnote in an academic paper arguing for reform of the apprentice removalist system in the United States. Veronica kind of thought the authors had missed the point.

"He was reckless and violent long before he came to Sherwood. He was just a kid, we were all just kids. But I think sooner or later something like that would have happened to him," Veronica said.

In a way, he'd died well. She could imagine J.D. exploiting it in the afterlife, twisting it into a sarcastic gloat. _Yes, I chose to go out that way. That's the perfecto beauty of it. You'll grow up, you'll start to wonder ... what if I failed to put out a helping hand in time? What if I could have stopped this poor boy's self-sacrificing suicide?_ he'd mock. Well, Veronica was admittedly something of an asshole back then, but he was a much bigger asshole, and she had her own damage to work out.

Veronica didn't actually believe in an afterlife, but if there was one, she'd like to think J.D. was still fuming mad about getting partial and undeserved credit for saving two Heathers.

"Perhaps," Martha sighed. "At least write your own RSVP, okay? It's only right to answer her."

"I'll be too busy to go, with the campaign heating up," Veronica said. With city elections on the horizon, she'd volunteered for envelope-stuffing, doorknocking, and generally corralling various people to actually do the things they impulsively put their hands up to do. Politics was high school writ large. Her mayoral candidate wasn't a bad sort. Decent ideas, and more importantly he put his nose to the grindstone and got the job done. Doing the right thing was the art of marrying pragmatism to idealism, and hoping that the resulting offspring inherited the best rather than the worst of its parents. Or like knowing you probably weren't a good person, deep down, but acting like you were anyway.

It was a time of optimism in politics. Not a bad time to be alive.

"You should run for city council yourself. I'm serious," Martha said. "You'd be a lot better than some of the current bunch. You're a long-term public servant, you're good at getting people to listen to you, and you do the research. You could really make a difference."

"Who knows?" Veronica said. She still knew how to snare and keep the attention of a room, how to walk as if with untouchable power and freeze with a snare or sardonic put-down. She mostly used it for socially acceptable causes these days, volunteered her time and made her choices one day at a time.

 _Except I've got more buried bodies than the average politician, there's that_.

Veronica stood up, throwing the last of her cigarette into the bin. "I don't want to get all mushy on you, Martha, but I'm happy where I am. Shall we motor, partner?"


End file.
